A nonsense poem full of outrage
The thing I like about my Opus Van De Oplicter poems is that sometimes there is utter seriousness in their silliness. This is one such case. I wrote this poem after reading about some Jamaicans in a mob attacking a poor defenseless MTF transgendered woman. There was another couple of things I read that day that fueled my rage. And so I wrote this, a poem about a Normal boy born in the land where everyone's weird. It's long, but it's a fast read. (The tenth stanza is one of my favorites! I have it memorized!)
"Ep-il-a-range"
By = Opus Van De Oplicter
(AKA Tristan A. Arts)
33 stanzas in pairs of couplets
There once was a land called Ep-il-a-range,
'Twas a land where all people were mightily strange;
Some wore live ducks instead of dead hats,
And others wore chokers of mummified bats.
Others went naked but for tutus and socks,
More than a few men dressed like Goldilocks;
Many were clowns or ladies with beard,
But everyone was - in some way - quite weird.
One day was a boy born into this land
Who did not feel like dressing as Barbara Streisand;
Nor did he care for tutus and socks,
Nor dressing like clowns nor like Goldilocks.
Bright colors annoyed him, “tea party” was boring,
He didn't want clothes that looked like the flooring;
While other kids danced about nude in the rain,
He fancied reading 'bout stock market gain.
“Spockplurgle,” “pilfit,” and “himble-dee-door,”
The other kids called him these names and more;
And when he wore his best suit and tie,
The other kids teased him, made the lad cry.
Whenever he wouldn't say “pliggle-dee-plouse,”
His father said, “We are all weird in this house!
So you'd better shape up, boy, or simply too soon
You'll get swallowed up by the monstrous solkoon!”
But that didn't faze him, this five year old boy
Who wouldn't be taken away from his joy
Of doing pre-calculus inside his head
And stroking the ledgers right next to his bed.
His father, annoyed, pulled his hair out in chunks,
His mother fell weeping and went on spelunks;
Then finally one day they'd had quite enough
And decided to get so seriously tough.
His mom and his dad, they took him aside,
His father spoke and his mom only cried;
And then they proceeded to fill him with lies
About all the ways a Normal soul dies.
They scared him with monsters, they scared him with spells;
They scared him with stories of seventeen Hells;
They scared him until he jeggled like jilly,
His mom and his dad, they scared him quite silly.
They told him such stories to fill him with fear,
Trying in vain to make him be weird;
They told this young boy who was only just five,
They told him such stories to scare him alive.
It worked - he was scared! So he tried to be odd,
First day in first grade he came as a Greek god;
Hiding his ledgers inside his school bag,
All the day long feeling wicked and bad.
By high school he was the true king of weird,
Came dressed like a woman though wearing a beard;
He went to school and then went straight home,
He could never fit in, so he stayed all alone.
He glared in the mirror one night after school
Angry and bitter and dressed like a fool;
Then, in his head broke a strained rubber band...
...he punched out the mirror, cut open his hand.
Bleeding profusely, thus staining his gown,
He screamed his rage out at the whole town!
He wept like a child being kicked in the nuts,
And the salt in his tears was burning the cuts.
When finally he settled, he came to a plan,
'Cause this was no place for a Normal young man!
He took off the dress, put on his best suit,
And wrote out a note, though he thought it quite moot.
With all of that done, he then braided his sheets
And put a nice chair there under his feets;
Making a noose, he made sure it was tight,
Then he bade the weird world his final good night.
But his mother came in for the laundry with care
And soon saw her son was hanging right there;
Screaming, she freed him and called 9-1-1,
The next dozen hours were not at all fun.
They took him to doctors, they took him to shrinks,
They tried every method, even old kitchen sinks!
But he was not weird nor ever would be,
And the lad would expire himself if not free.
The boy could not stand to try to be weird,
But he couldn't be Normal because of his fear!
So he pushed at the boundaries till they'd almost break,
To see how much Normality they could all take.
He would wear a fine suit, but with tutu and scythe,
Long purple pants, green shoes, orange tie,
Slightly red wig, granny glasses, red nails,
And each of his cuff links wore little tails.
He carried his ledgers, but they wore gaudy clothes,
Underneath of his wig was short hair apropos;
He shaved off his beard and, with briefcase in hand,
Went about pseudo-weird in his oh-so-strange land.
But the murmurs arose from the ground like a phage,
His stabs at “Normal” were gossip first page!
Everyone teased him, and he didn't have friends,
Would he try once more to bring himself to an end?
Then he went to the prom in top hat and tux,
But everyone else was wearing live ducks;
The men all were wearing backless black gowns,
And the ladies were wearing parkas so brown.
Everyone at the prom saw him being so Normal,
They all filled with rage at him looking so formal!
He smiled, not hearing how it all got too quiet,
He was taken off-guard when they started to riot!
“Spockplurgle,” “pilfit,” and “himble-dee-door!”
They screamed out these names and myriad more,
While ripping his clothes and pounding with fists,
Hitting so hard fluids drifted like mists.
To the hospital went the poor Normal boy,
Who now was finding it hard to find joy;
None was in pre-calc nor ledgers nor stocks,
Nor was there any in boxes of clocks.
His mother she wept, his father he stared,
Both were wishing that he could be spared;
They wondered how long till they buried their son
Either by his own hand or being attacked by someone.
When released from the hospital healed enough,
The Normal boy silently packed up his stuff
And dropped out of high school one month till its end,
Into the weird world in search of a friend.
For he'd come to decide while sitting in bed,
Bandages bloody encasing his head,
Contemplating his life as he stared at the nurse
That seventeen hells could hardly be worse.
He believed in no monsters except human beings,
There were no spells worse than those he was seeing;
And the old “status quo,” whatever form it was taking,
Was a common illusion all people were making.
His things packed away in the suitcase with care,
He paused for a moment to take in some air;
He got on his best suit, no weirdness at all,
And stepped out in the world, challenging all.
For this “Normal” boy knew that here, he was not;
It was a lesson he's never since ever forgot!
And so he left home, proud that he could now say
That he'd found he was weird in his own special way.
"Ep-il-a-range"
By = Opus Van De Oplicter
(AKA Tristan A. Arts)
33 stanzas in pairs of couplets
There once was a land called Ep-il-a-range,
'Twas a land where all people were mightily strange;
Some wore live ducks instead of dead hats,
And others wore chokers of mummified bats.
Others went naked but for tutus and socks,
More than a few men dressed like Goldilocks;
Many were clowns or ladies with beard,
But everyone was - in some way - quite weird.
One day was a boy born into this land
Who did not feel like dressing as Barbara Streisand;
Nor did he care for tutus and socks,
Nor dressing like clowns nor like Goldilocks.
Bright colors annoyed him, “tea party” was boring,
He didn't want clothes that looked like the flooring;
While other kids danced about nude in the rain,
He fancied reading 'bout stock market gain.
“Spockplurgle,” “pilfit,” and “himble-dee-door,”
The other kids called him these names and more;
And when he wore his best suit and tie,
The other kids teased him, made the lad cry.
Whenever he wouldn't say “pliggle-dee-plouse,”
His father said, “We are all weird in this house!
So you'd better shape up, boy, or simply too soon
You'll get swallowed up by the monstrous solkoon!”
But that didn't faze him, this five year old boy
Who wouldn't be taken away from his joy
Of doing pre-calculus inside his head
And stroking the ledgers right next to his bed.
His father, annoyed, pulled his hair out in chunks,
His mother fell weeping and went on spelunks;
Then finally one day they'd had quite enough
And decided to get so seriously tough.
His mom and his dad, they took him aside,
His father spoke and his mom only cried;
And then they proceeded to fill him with lies
About all the ways a Normal soul dies.
They scared him with monsters, they scared him with spells;
They scared him with stories of seventeen Hells;
They scared him until he jeggled like jilly,
His mom and his dad, they scared him quite silly.
They told him such stories to fill him with fear,
Trying in vain to make him be weird;
They told this young boy who was only just five,
They told him such stories to scare him alive.
It worked - he was scared! So he tried to be odd,
First day in first grade he came as a Greek god;
Hiding his ledgers inside his school bag,
All the day long feeling wicked and bad.
By high school he was the true king of weird,
Came dressed like a woman though wearing a beard;
He went to school and then went straight home,
He could never fit in, so he stayed all alone.
He glared in the mirror one night after school
Angry and bitter and dressed like a fool;
Then, in his head broke a strained rubber band...
...he punched out the mirror, cut open his hand.
Bleeding profusely, thus staining his gown,
He screamed his rage out at the whole town!
He wept like a child being kicked in the nuts,
And the salt in his tears was burning the cuts.
When finally he settled, he came to a plan,
'Cause this was no place for a Normal young man!
He took off the dress, put on his best suit,
And wrote out a note, though he thought it quite moot.
With all of that done, he then braided his sheets
And put a nice chair there under his feets;
Making a noose, he made sure it was tight,
Then he bade the weird world his final good night.
But his mother came in for the laundry with care
And soon saw her son was hanging right there;
Screaming, she freed him and called 9-1-1,
The next dozen hours were not at all fun.
They took him to doctors, they took him to shrinks,
They tried every method, even old kitchen sinks!
But he was not weird nor ever would be,
And the lad would expire himself if not free.
The boy could not stand to try to be weird,
But he couldn't be Normal because of his fear!
So he pushed at the boundaries till they'd almost break,
To see how much Normality they could all take.
He would wear a fine suit, but with tutu and scythe,
Long purple pants, green shoes, orange tie,
Slightly red wig, granny glasses, red nails,
And each of his cuff links wore little tails.
He carried his ledgers, but they wore gaudy clothes,
Underneath of his wig was short hair apropos;
He shaved off his beard and, with briefcase in hand,
Went about pseudo-weird in his oh-so-strange land.
But the murmurs arose from the ground like a phage,
His stabs at “Normal” were gossip first page!
Everyone teased him, and he didn't have friends,
Would he try once more to bring himself to an end?
Then he went to the prom in top hat and tux,
But everyone else was wearing live ducks;
The men all were wearing backless black gowns,
And the ladies were wearing parkas so brown.
Everyone at the prom saw him being so Normal,
They all filled with rage at him looking so formal!
He smiled, not hearing how it all got too quiet,
He was taken off-guard when they started to riot!
“Spockplurgle,” “pilfit,” and “himble-dee-door!”
They screamed out these names and myriad more,
While ripping his clothes and pounding with fists,
Hitting so hard fluids drifted like mists.
To the hospital went the poor Normal boy,
Who now was finding it hard to find joy;
None was in pre-calc nor ledgers nor stocks,
Nor was there any in boxes of clocks.
His mother she wept, his father he stared,
Both were wishing that he could be spared;
They wondered how long till they buried their son
Either by his own hand or being attacked by someone.
When released from the hospital healed enough,
The Normal boy silently packed up his stuff
And dropped out of high school one month till its end,
Into the weird world in search of a friend.
For he'd come to decide while sitting in bed,
Bandages bloody encasing his head,
Contemplating his life as he stared at the nurse
That seventeen hells could hardly be worse.
He believed in no monsters except human beings,
There were no spells worse than those he was seeing;
And the old “status quo,” whatever form it was taking,
Was a common illusion all people were making.
His things packed away in the suitcase with care,
He paused for a moment to take in some air;
He got on his best suit, no weirdness at all,
And stepped out in the world, challenging all.
For this “Normal” boy knew that here, he was not;
It was a lesson he's never since ever forgot!
And so he left home, proud that he could now say
That he'd found he was weird in his own special way.