One of the many activities employed by the members of God Street Wine to pass the long hours spent each week in the van is the writing of poetry. Poems written in the van have a special unmistakable flavor that makes them different from poems written anywhere else in the world. This is because a totally seperate set of laws governs reality once you get inside the GSW van.
For this reason we feel that "van poetry" should be considered an entirely new literary genre, which remains for the most part unexplored. The following examples should be seen as fledgling first attempts at explorin g this new and exciting mode of artistic expression.
We heartily encourage others, especially other bands and anyone who spends a lot of time in vans, to try their hand at this exciting new activity. It's more socially redeeming than Slander, more creative than playing "Ghost", and may someday make you rich and famous.
The authors are identified by their initials: LF - Lo Faber
JB - Jon Bevo
TO - Tomo
AM - Aaron Maxwell
DP - Dan Pifer
MW - Michael Weiss
*A quick note before you begin. This page represent a piece of GSW history. This was all taken from the year 1992. The Chevrolet Van, in which all of this was composed, is no longer a part of the GSW family. This very van (which by the way was given to us for the rights to the album "Who's Driving") was in fact a total and complete lemon. This van sucked ass. It was replaced. By yes, you guessed it - another van. This new van was a Dodge van. As far as I know, there is no official record of van poetry from this vehicle. Except for the poetic frescoe which bestows the ceiling. This I hope you will all one day see (it is quite exceptional). To give you a hint it is merely the words 'I hate this van', written out well over ten-thousand times, in glorious waves and patterns and majestic twists and turns. But as time marches on, this van as well, is out of the picture. It now rests in our driveway and awaits purchase by a person who might need this sort of vehicle. Our next tour will be our very first tour in which we get to spend these lonely hours on the highways of America in a tour bus. Ahhhhh.....But we shall always be able to look back at those hours upon days upon months upon years of four wheels, two seats, four benches, garbage, stink, and having to stop every half hour for someone to pee - by rereading what we created in our little metal jail on wheels.
* Another quick note: The above, written by Bevo in 1995 or 1996, is correct in spirit but extremely inaccurate in the details. The van in which all of the "Van Poetry" was written was the original 1986 Chevy Sport Van (which IS, by the way, the van pictured in the accompanying photos). This was NOT the van we got for "Who's Driving" which was, in fact a 1990 Ford Econoline and was indeed a "lemon". The Chevy Sport Van was not a lemon, though it did die a heroic death after driving across much of Colorado spouting blue flames from its exhaust pipe in 1992. Furthermore, the van in which we frescoed the ceiling panels so memorably was a blue Dodge van, which came later--when we released "$1.99 Romances" in 1994. For the curious, yes, we still have the ceiling panels, though the van is long gone. -LF. 1999
THE KEYBOARDIST | WEISS |
---|---|
Swarthy Bevo, | A large black Converse |
Prone in the back seat, | Resting on the dashboard |
Tom Robbins novel on his chest, | A Colorado Rockies cap |
Is probably not sleeping. | Glimpsed over the top of the seat, |
But his eyelids are shut | A protruding shoulder, |
And he needs a shave. | An occasional comment, |
Amen. | These things make up Weiss, |
--LF | Lighter of frequent cigarettes. |
--LF |
HIGHWAY | |
---|---|
Oh, afternoon highway | Vast Masturbatory Angel |
Arrogant as an Oldsmobile | Ride the single-limbed clover |
Apolitical as a Volvo | To self-sufficient |
Home of old men in back seats, | Euphoria |
Young professionals alone at the wheel, | Bent and seeing |
And the occasional car full of African | No high slice |
Americans: | Severing |
Do not attempt to convert me | Time to wallow |
To the valium-bland point of view | In the WD-40 |
Expressed in your heterogenous foliage | All night |
And your sneaky green signs. | --MW |
I know who I am, | |
And all the McDonald's in the world | |
Will never change that. | |
--LF |
Slap that methodical Sony, | Wacky Man |
Hard and fast | Shake a can |
It's disco-clean attention | Do you know who I am? |
Takes your mind from maps | Wacky Man |
And motor oil | See my tan |
To the platform booted seventies siren | You're no Howdy Doody |
--MW | But I am. |
--JB |
THIS POEM | SUNDAY |
---|---|
This poem | Noon on a Sunday |
Is probably just as good | Me and Tomo and Johnnie B. |
As Mike's poem | Cruisin' down the highway |
And shorter | Talkin' bout Dan |
And more quickly written. | --LF |
--LF |
Fry a thin potato with serrated edge | Few things are finer |
Drain the sucker good, you know, | Than the short sexy blonde |
Drip, drip, drip | With the full lips |
Kill a fat tomato with a hammer head | Who knows how to wear flannel |
Coagulate the mess, then | In this American-car driving town. |
Dip, dip, dip | --LF |
Dip your Potato in a big fat dead tomato | |
Feast your eyes on the shiny blood-red tint | |
Dip your Potato in a big fat dead tomato | |
Don't forget to ask for your favorite condiment. | |
--MW |
BRUSH YOUR TEETH | |
---|---|
Who's that cutie in the crowd | Eighty-six the little gal in the floral bouquet |
With legs so long and trim? | Peppered-up little Vanna doll don't get the time |
I think that I should make a move | of day |
Take aim and jump right in | Break out of your Volvo, |
The problem now is not my fear | And strip out of your dress |
Or any dark psychosis | Hitch a ride in a pickup truck with |
But the fact that such a fine young thing | The undone Flannel-Guy Princess |
Could have such | Flannel Gal, |
Halitosis | Ride the checkered highway |
--DP | Flannel Gal. |
--MW | |
I SING THE PARKWAY TACONIC | |
---|---|
I sing the Parkway Taconic | |
For driving it's an excellent place. | |
I have written four poems today | A person's said to be catatonic |
No, wait; | Who sits all day and stares into space. |
Make that five. | I think philosophy is moronic |
--LF | With all its talk of being and essence, |
When I mix a drink I rarely use tonic | |
Cause I dislike the word "Scweppervescence" | |
I like to listen to Harry Conick | |
Playing my favorite Gershwin selections | |
SANS EDGE | My penis is not electronic |
Oh to be the razor | But I still get frequent erections |
Snip-snip through his hair | The 6-Million Dollar Man was bionic, |
Oh to shave the armpits | And made the actor Lee Majors famous |
So tank-tops he'll wear | He never would need a colonic |
I long for permission | To ease the pain in his anus. |
I'll show how much I care | I sing the Parkway Taconic |
If I could trim his region | It's a good place to drive into a big buck, |
Leaving tiny nubs down there | And I think it is very ironic |
--TO | That I died from being hit by |
A rib truck. | |
--Anon |
30 SECONDS | |
---|---|
Mirrored skyway | Sitting alone |
Lavender sun | A reflective moment in the van |
Oh what a feeling | Outside the Fore & Aft |
Oh what fun | I decided |
Drive to the Rhinecliff | It might be a good time |
For a musical bout | To write another poem. |
Don't stop for a gas fill | That was 30 seconds ago. |
Don't pick up the trout | --LF |
--MW |
THE SPORTS VAN | |
---|---|
(as inspired by T.S. Eliot) | |
On the way to another gig | Chevy is the cruelest van, chafing |
It is today that I am stuck | Highways in the dark air, striding |
With the notion of | Silver sun down through foggy rise |
Guitar picks and strings | Cultivating slander |
Of toilets without stalls | And corrosively catching dreams |
And kids with yin-yang rings. | In the conscious |
Maybe tonight some drunk boy will ask me: | Skyway walker like Wallenda |
Do you know Burns Man | Water buffalo in a field of lamb |
And I will say yes | Chevy is the cruelest van. |
As I go to sing Big Papa. | --MW |
--AM |
FIREFLY | 100 BUDDHAS |
---|---|
My little blonde firefly | So pretty and glistening |
Shine your light for me | That little green globule |
Illuminate your thorax | As it lies |
For all the world to see | Soft and warm |
I am just a caterpillar | Hot and moist |
Inching across your knee | Born of Tomo's inner sanctum |
As tranquil and austere | There is more spirituality in this |
As all the algea in the sea | Perfectly formed 'loogie' resting atop the |
--LF | steering column |
Than in 100 Buddhas | |
--JB |
CHICKEN
LITTLE
|
A CONDOM IN HER PURSE |
---|---|
A melted testicle landed on my head | B's elder sistren |
Sqqwwwiiissssshhh!!! | The 20-something barflies of Rhinebeck |
I would never be the same | Sit in a row, on barstools with legs crossed. |
--JB | They will never come in to hear the band, |
Or dance in the front row | |
Me, My only I, | Their slut-schemes are lazy and world-weary. |
Much seen, | Does any thought blemish the mind |
Still bathed in green | Of the one in the black skirt |
Willows... | With a Marlboro Light held daintily, |
Willows... | Between 2 fingers, smeared with lipstick |
Cat willows. | And (this is only conjecture) |
Sniff only fishy willows. | A condom in her purse? |
--TO | --LF |
RHEINCLIFF ODE |
---|
by Michael Weiss |
In an old old dark sleepy trout pool inn |
Black lace and rain at three A.M. |
Drums and tongues speak truth and dare |
Lingerie eyes and sun painted hair |
Disappearing drum sticks |
Speaking in tongues |
It's just an average evening when the lights are dim |
Down around the freight train, at the trout pool inn |
Sally don't care if her Mom's in town |
And Sally don't care if she is found |
She's drinking wine (enough for two) |
She's having fun |
There's a story goin' all around town |
It's a rumour to many, but truth to some |
Up on the throne is where Sally did sit |
The clothes she did throw, and she licked the kit |
Compromising morals? |
What's self-esteem? |
Just some questions being asked at the looney bin |
Down around the freight train at the trout pool inn |
Sally don't care if her Mom's in town |
And Sally don't care if she is found |
She's drinking wine (enough for two) |
She's having fun |
She's having fun |
She's having fun... |
--9/92 |
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