Poetry Blog by Richie Muster (2012)

7-Up: Cleanliness Is Next To Impossible

Who else, save that one person

in need of relaxation

would stoop to taking a bath?

From the very first instant

said bather isn't cleaner

but more and more wallowing

in their own scum-laden filth.

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The Whole Hog

If you're only prepared to meet the bastards halfway

how can you ever say you've won?

You haven't even drawn.

You've only called halftime,

after which they'll have moved the goalposts

(again!), dug deep pits across the pitch

and fudged the rules of the game.

They'll have planted a spy on your team too.


No, if you want to stand any chance of winning

you'll have to pl...

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Leave Or Remain, It's All The Same

How sadly it's come to this:

the apotheosis

of our egos' mad desires.


Now all this nightmare requires

of us to finalise

matters is to analyse


our crude methodology

and, sans apology

give the Earth one last, good kick -


yes, that ought to do the trick -

then drink to its poor health.

We've raped it of all its wealth,


we've torn it and tortured...

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climate change

If Poems Were Paintings (A Scabrous Fantasy, Written After Watching J. Koons at Work On BBC4)

This poem was painstakingly transcribed by 23 unpaid

interns labouring under my cool, indifferent 'tutelage'

(and who, after each day's work is finished, in bars and cafés

across the city will pretend to their friends how valued

they're made to feel as students and protegés of mine.)


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A Few Lines Conceived In Poor Mimickry (A Mere Matter Of Minutes After Concluding A Biography Concerning That Conceited, If Colourful Cove, Coleridge)

I, too have watched a myriad words die,

all for want of you, fearless audience -

your special someone with that kindly eye

and ear who could best, sans wilful offence


urge me to test myself, by composing

a thousand lines and honing them to one.

Your wisdom, without combative ego's

ingrown need to sound 'clever' (not far gone


in self-esteem, I mean) might serve adv...

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My Mea Culpa To The Future

Tomorrow's cohort have cause to complain:

we've squandered their birthright (this fragile earth,)

burning resources for personal gain

and left them all this mess. For what it's worth


though we've claimed no right nor shown contrition

for leaving their world denuded of life,

with nature in such a raped condition,

stripped-mined by greed at the point of a knife.



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A Life (1897-1980)

Keen amateur footballer,

playing centre forward for teams

in two local leagues (between jobs.)


Fought in the trenches,

enlisting as a private

and demobbed as a sergeant

at officer-training school.


Awarded the Military Medal

during that terrible 'Kaiserschlacht'

for repelling an attack in force.

All by himself.


Post-war, turned down an offer

to pla...

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Raison D'Etre

I live for the dream of hell to pay

and better words to arraign each thought;

alas, Dunning-Kruger bars my way

and up my tongue gets tied. Options float -


teasingly, playing peek-a-boo-you,

buckling swash through my jaded mind's eye,

first dancing into, then out of view -

leaving me clutching as straws flit by.


It's like the end of the Crystal Maze

where bankno...

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I wish these rocky days were at an end
and I could go at last to join my friend.
I have no great desire to stay on here
and would much rather simply disappear.

No-one will really mourn me, should I go
to that great drinker’s tavern down below;
much less is there some lover who might grieve,
were I to pop my clogs and take my leave.

I do believe he’s lounging with a beer,
somewhere tha...

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