Van Poetry



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



BACK TO WEIRD STUFF

 

God Street Wine Home * Who Is GSW? * The Music * The Grapevine
Wine Cellar * On The Road * Contact * The Store


Follow the links above and buy lots of our stuff! Thanks for your support.

All material here c1999 by God Street Wine Productions Inc.