The Poetry of Opus Van De Oplicter

©2006 Tristan A. Arts

The Poetry of Opus Van De Oplicter
AKA Tristan A. Arts.

Opus Van De Oplicter is a pseudonym I use when I'm feeling silly while writing a poem. It means "Work of the Trickster."



"Alimentary, My Dear Watson"

I went to a restaurant and sat to the right,
Thinking I would enjoy a wonderful night.
Coming in the doorway, I stubbed my damn toe;
Sadly, the fine night would have nowhere to go.

Our waiter was 12, and anemic to boot!
Every step that he took, he let out a toot.
He held a small beach in a tray in his hand
And took down our orders by drawing in sand.

The doors were wide open to the wind that day,
And of course our waiter stood right in its way!
He got so frustrated, he broke down and cried,
And I said, "Now there, there, at least you have tried."

Just then, to our great shock and to our dismay,
To take down our orders, he peed on his tray!
Finally he got them - to the kitchen he went,
And a bus boy slipped, since the floor was still wet.

That fellow's tray fell to Earth with a clatter,
Hitting me full on the face with cake batter,
Egg albumen, carrot cake, chocolate pudding,
And other things gross from losing his footing.

Staff helped me clean up, but got soap in my eye,
They even promised to help dry-clean my tie.
We were treated like princes coming to feast,
When our eyes fell upon what looked like a beast.

'Twas the furriest thing outside of a zoo,
Furrier than even a gorilla crew!
All you could see of him was piercing blue eyes;
He was the head chef, why was I not surprised?

Cement-addled pastries were served by this chef,
An algid man with a concave chest;
His head was exactly shaped like a turnip,
And his voice was much like the voice of Kermit.

Apologizing profusely indeedy,
Our meals came to us really quite speedy;
But I wasn't surprised, when getting our food,
To have found a large wad of fur in my soup.

The furry thing twitched, giving me such a start
That paramedics had to restart my heart!
The sodden kitten was better than we'd feared
After having fallen from Chef Pearce's beard.

Suffice it to say, I'll not be returning
To the restaurant where food's always burning,
With the staff that is an incompetent troupe;
But damn it all, that sure was mighty fine soup.

"Analog Monkeys Having Digital Wet Dreams"

Private pornographers and cabaret rings,
Monkeys pounding on keyboards and on other things!
Shrieks of delight echo out in the dark,

Analog apes look at nude women so buff,
Despite scurrilous sanctions and scalding rebuffs.
Apes wearing fine pressed formal attire
Scald all the others for their burning desire.

Oh the pompous egos of the apes wearing suits
Convince them they are above all the troupe!
Far from eyes that would point out the lies,
The clothed apes have sex the others despise.

Chimpanzees shriek and disembowel mere babies
While heatedly berating sex's "depravities."
Out in public they fling shit at the "sleaze balls"
While committing atrocities behind hidden walls.

Enraged apes in the thousands screaming like banshees
Knock over the walls that hide hidden sleaze
And the apes wearing clothes are caught with a frown
In unflattering poses, and their pants falling down.

A shocked silence strikes down ev-er-y one
At the sight of a clothed ape having some fun
While the ape he's caught with is howling in pain;
She was too small for even his tiny gain.

The whole story laid out like the entrails of old
Along with high mountains of shiny white gold.
Clothed apes soil themselves and whimper with fear
Because they sense that their end is near.

With scrieks of anger like a monster from Hell,
The monkey masses start to swell.
A tsunami of monkey flesh swallows clothed apes
Who are torn to pieces shaped roughly like grapes.

Now pornographers and cabaret rings,
Bonobo clubs and other swell things
Are out in the public where safety permits,
The clothed apes in Hell being torn to bits.

"Animals Are Not Piņatas"

I got my head stuck in a pigeon;
I'm not quite sure what I did
To get my head stuck in a pigeon,
But I found ten pounds and a quid.

I got my arm stuck in a fox;
I'm not quite sure what I did
To get my arm stuck in a fox,
But I found a ten pound squid.

I got my legs trapped in an otter;
I'm not quite sure what I did
To get my legs trapped in an otter,
But I found a three pound kid.

I have my other arm stuck in a turtle;
God knows I wish I didn't!
Stuck in a pigeon, fox, an otter, and turtle,
I don't want to know how I did it.

"Earthenware Man"

An earthenware man wore a snow cone on his head,
Smiled rather proudly, and got out of his bed.
Calling it a dunce cap, he wore it like a prize,
And started looking for a brand new pair of eyes.

Wanting to be clairvoyant, he screwed up the gall
To steal my daughter's Magic 8-Ball!
He stole the marbles of a palm reader from France,
Put one in his eye hole, the rest went in his pants.

Having no need for food, and thus having no teeth,
The dang earthenware man then began to seek these.
He scoured the South but found not even a one,
Complained of this problem, and is now on the run.

But he found a place with a myriad of pairs,
Stole one from an old woman, knocked her down the stairs.
Feeling bad for his actions, he followed her down,
Carried her to a hospital not far from town.

She couldn't pay her bills, which made him feel worse,
But she had more money than he, deep in her purse.
He started a fundraiser, and, to do his part,
The earthenware fellow sold himself then as art.

She got a million bucks and a golden pail;
The clay man was sad, but happy at this sale.
Her last few years would be comforting and mild,
And he would play every day with a rich man's child.

For the man had a daughter only 3 years old,
And like her kindly father, had a heart of gold.
Clay man bent down, let her grab him by the suture,
And let her shake his head to find out her future.

"Golly Olly Poogledokkins"

Crumbunctuous autocrats in floral attires
Sit sipping champagne and pissing on fires
While telling tall tales of being oppressed
For being well mannered and so finely dressed.

Well versed in the facts, they sputter like weasels
About the medicinal profits of measles
And singing an ode to the good ol' days lost
Which one fellow dressed plainly presumes to accost.

Says he, "All's not lost, and the world is well,
For the most part, and not at all buried in Hell.
We've food in our bellies and churches built tall
And people of all kinds are free without wall.

"We sit sipping champagne and pissing on fires,
Our clothes are not rags - we are richly attired.
Our wives hold grand parties and we eat fish eggs raw
That are shipped here from as far as old Shangra-La.

"Our coffers flow over with profits galore!
When's the last time you had to go to the store?
We feast every night till we roll down the hall,
Drunker than drunk and polluting the stall.

"We're free to believe whatever we choose,
And our companies run while we dare to snooze.
Nothing's beyond us or out of our grip,
Not even ditch weed or coke or catnip!

"Yet here we complain and we gripe and we groan
Even though we have nothing at all to bemoan.
All day long we sit sour like grumps
Feeling oppressed and down in the dumps.

"Our power is limitless, we've the masses in thrall,
They bow to our will, and that is not all!
We ignore our advisors who've knowledge well earned
As well as those books we yesterday burned.

"So why the tall tales of our being oppressed?
So some commoners say we have sins unconfessed...
So what if they can't see us as more than old grumps?
Maybe they're sore about having the mumps."

With pontificatious expressions of woe
The others condescend to pity their foe
For being so nescient on the gains got by mumps
That they forget to chastise his choice of black pumps.

Yet they call him a scoundrel, a sinner, a liar,
And proceed with haste to set him on fire;
Another log, smelling foul, goes into the flame,
And they swear on their lies to say never his name.

They flump back on their sofas with creaks and with groans
Five tons of flab moved by brittle old bones
Wheezing and whining in their floral attires,
Sipping on champagne and pissing on fires.

"Knights and Knaves and Ladies"

Once I dreamed of kings and queens
And knights and knaves and ladies;
And one fair knight uncommon bright,
He bowed and said, "Milady!
Twas not I who was on high
When came and went the jury,
And few have fortunes fast enough
To flee the pharaoh's fury,
And priests with power plentiful
Push promises of peace,
All while singing serpent songs to
Seduce your pious niece
While wily wizards weave delight
With magick seldom spent
Instead of softly sighing
Of where the times all went.
I fear I follow prophets false
Or ways misunderstood,
Letting lying lechers lead me far from good.
For trusting those the tyrant tithes can only lead to ill;
Such gruesome, grotesque, greedy guts
Can never get their fill.
The truth is ten times taller than we
Ever could have guessed,
But we must bring beliefs beloved boldly to the test.
What say you, Lord's lovely lady, shall we as God be?
Shall we shuck our silly shackles and fly like faeries free?"
"Why," she said, smiling sadly, "why, my knight, of course!
But twill not help me much, I fear, for I am but a corpse."

"Prithee, Pariah"

Prithee, pariah, what portents have you?
Please pontificate poorly so I can sip stew.
For portents said poorly will not distract from my meal
Of water, potatoes, spices, and eel.

I can't concentrate on the stew made for me
When you're telling us things we don't wish to see!
We'd much rather you expound on the prices of ham,
Soybeans, apple juice, and antique cans of spam.

Instead, all I hear is how we have strayed,
Ignoring the laws we ought have obeyed
While enforcing harshly rule 983,
About how to properly converse with a tree.

Look now at the spoon - it is covered in soil;
I rammed it in my ear, your words to foil!
And now I have nothing to lodge in my knee
While you spew forth your blasphemy!

I cannot run my kingdom with you speaking the truth,
Your influence is corrupting our youth!
If ignorance is bliss, our land must brim with glee,
Misogynistic musteries must not be broke by thee!

Prithee, Portenter, eat this fine meal
Of evacuation and fermented eel!
You died for your country from one patriot act,
For you would not accept lies as fact.

"Two Lovers Eating Head Cheese"

This was my first Opus Van De Oplicter poem ever. I wrote it and submitted it to, and they were going to accept it! So I submitted it to the Wergle Flomp poetry contest. Didn't win, but it was fun!
Muckity muckity, gimpity guckity,
All upon my knees;
Uppity puppetry for gibleted gumperies,
I ate up some good head cheese.

Flippity floppity, pageantish mockery,
Dressed like a dandy in drag;
Clippity cloppety, flim-flam floppety,
Please stop massaging my bag.

Dork-I-see fork-in-me, snot slip snorkelry,
Eating cherry pie with spades;
Knock for me Count-of-Three in your nunnery,
Priests and nuns making trades.

Shimmity shammity, flimmity flammity,
Snorkel inside chicken stew;
Crimeny mime-of-thee, ill-fitting biddy bee,
I ate some head cheese with you.

"Unconditional Love"

I had some tea with one of me,
It wasn't quite delicious;
My tea was much like bloody pee
And the crumpets were atrocious!

"Fine chap," quoth I with much distaste,
"Your tea is growing fur;
The crumpets feel like spoiled paste
And I heard your teacup purr."

"Well," said I with anger hot,
"Could you do it any better?
The tea was three years in its pot,
But the crumpets, they were wetter!

"I had to bake the crumpets up,
But my oven, it was broke;
I tried to cook them in a cup,
And all I got was smoke!

"My microwaves were all too small
And launched them into space!
I tried to cook some in a ball
And nearly lost my face!

"I tried to cook them many ways
And each time sorely failed;
I tried and tried for many days
And nearly went to jail!

"Then the teapot caught on fire
And started belching flames!
By that time my ire
Got tired of these games.

"So there you are, my other self,
Try to best me if you will!
But I'm no goddamn Keebler elf,
So eat and drink my swill!"

"Well," I said with pity grand,
"A toast, then, to your life."
I drank his tea and took his hand
And took him as my wife.

"What A Large, Mammoth, Atrocious, Rambunctious Theropod (W.A.L.M.A.R.T.)"

I happened to be walking and eating pumpkin pie
When a beast the size of Texas squirted in my eye!
It rose up from the pits of Hell to wash its feet in oil
Then tromped around the world killing all the soil.

Its head was enormous, two thousand times the size
Of eighteen million ostrich eyes!
Its length was great, four million times the span
Of the ranch once known as Neverland.

Its body was humongous, eight billion times the mass
Of the thousand pound man's jiggly white ass!
Its mouth was awesome, and - this is just a hunch,
It could eat a dozen whales and still have room for lunch.

Born from just a tiny worm left in toxic sludge
And no one thought they ought to nip it in the bud!
So it mutated grossly and started eating logs,
Then it ate some children, some bunnies, and some dogs.

It gained a taste for human flesh and then for human souls
All while eating everything from elephants to voles!
Sperm whales it eats for breakfast, with dodo egg drop soup;
Don't stand too close behind it or you'll suffocate in poop!

Its shit is highly toxic, and acidic to the touch
It'll burn your legs away, hurting rather much!
Its piss you can surely smell from twenty miles away;
The stench gets ten times worse if it's eating any hay.

Lunchtime draws closer and small towns fall in its maw,
It'll eat a couple glaciers and smile while they thaw!
Its grin is mighty wicked and the teeth are long as roads,
And its face looks like Frankenstein combined a million toads!

A trillion eyes all down its length will turn a man to stone,
A woman into bars of soap, and children into loam;
It thrives on others' suffering, and cannot feel pain,
The only way to wound it is to take its name in vain!

Its voice is composed of the screams of children dying,
Its spirit is made from everybody lying!
Its exhalations wither plants and smell like a giant's fart,
Oh God! I just got eaten by the beast they call Wal-Mart!

©2006 Lolita Leigh Smith /
Tristan A. Arts

Disclaimer: Yes, I am a mid-continuum multiple. I do not have a full-blown case of Disassociative Identity Disorder... I'm just one person with many Faces that each feel almost completely like other people.
If you can't see past this fact, then please go away.