The people have endured hardships for a while now. They have prayed and fasted for a better day but none has come. Prophesy has been given but has not been fulfilled. There have been moaning and groaning in every heart, in every home and in all the streets. Tyranny and misrule have become the trademark of the Mugabe rule. Finally our hope is at an end and our patience faded. It is time for a new Zimbabwean renaissance!
Zimbabwe does not belong to a few, it is not an aristocratic organisation. No one inherited the birth right to the white house. No one person is entitled to the presidency alone. It is the people who make Zimbabwe and it is they who rule. The president is nothing but a glorified civil servant. He or she works for the people and not against them. The people are the masses and they have the ultimate power. The Police and Army are mandated to serve and protect the interests of the people and not to fight them. The government should be for the people. Governments are nothing without the people!
Mugabe is the most shameful of African leaders. He was a beacon of light that turned into an apocalyptic darkness. He was the colourful and joyous son of Africa now turned into a ruthless dictator. The unlikely and even undeserving candidate who now imposes himself to be the king for life. The incorruptible one who has now become the father and a haven for the **** of corruption. Mugabe is a man disillusioned by his own grandiose imaginations that have been brewed by his over-prolonged stay on the seat of power. He has become the educated man who turned into the most foolish amongst us. Lost all sense of morality and cannot distinguish between what is right and wrong. This icon of a man has ****** on his own legacy. He has torn down his own statues. No longer shall he be remembered as a great revolutionary, he shall forever be vilified for the political villain that he is. The angel sent by God to redeem us has become the devil to us.
Mugabe is a testament that education and wisdom can be parallel. Maybe he has succumbed to the vices of old age and lost his original senses. Or maybe he is now just a stooge and stage puppet controlled by others behind the scenes. It could be that he suffers from dementia or some form of schizophrenic condition. He has a deranged personality void of all manner of reason and decency. Maybe he has become blinded and cannot see the reality of the Zimbabwean condition.
I am neither Zanu PF nor MDC or any other sham. I am red, white, black, green and yellow. I am a Zimbabwean. I cannot believe how I supported this madman and his cronies blindly for a time. I was once deluded and believed in the sovereignty dogma and the right for Zimbabwe to influence its own politics. All the time the country was deteriorating as the Zanu PF cancer was spreading across all corners of this beautiful nation. Those in power were busy abusing it and looting wealth for themselves. They looted farms, properties, companies, gold, platinum and diamonds. Everything they touched was stained with failure.
Some of the most educated people in Africa have now become nomads and sojourners in this world. The beauty and grace that distinguished Zimbabwe from the rest has been greatly compromised and diminished.  Zimbabwe has become nothing to write home about. Our previously less prominent neighbours have outgrown us.
The people go hungry, the banks have no money, industry has lost its footing, unemployment at its highest, crime and discord rampant, nothing but lawlessness and disorder. No electricity everywhere and  water supply is erratic. The roads are in dire condition. The industries of Bulawayo have suffocated to death. White collar workers have been reduced to vending. We are now a nation of scavengers and families grow hungry. Exports are a thing of the past and the Zimbabwean dollar is nowhere to be seen. The whole economy is in a constant state of illness and misery. The health sector has been hit hard. Zimbabwean youth have become jobless and confused. The working class goes on without receiving wages and salaries. In the meantime the police has become more corrupt and draconian, ZIMRA keeps squeezing the little money the poor have and there is mass censorship everywhere. The man who was tasked to manage this country has failed and must step down. These are more than enough reasons for change.
Mugabe and his government have turned the reputation of Zimbabweans to nothing. Zimbabweans are now seen as weak and destitute people all across the world. In certain places they have become pariahs who survive by hustling, robbing and conning. We are scattered all over and it is not by choice.
The pride and dignity of the Zimbabwean flag has been tainted by this man. As heinous and evil was the Ian Smith regime and his supremacist government, Mugabe is worse. We will never wish to go back to white rule but we wish for a black competent government that is effective. We just want things to work in Zimbabwe. We want to restore the beauty of our glorious nation. We want Zimbabwe to be better than it was ever before. One thing is clear, Mugabe has done his part and has run out of ideas. His time is done! We need fresh thinkers in the white house. We need real change in Zimbabwe. A new dispensation with none of the failed old guard. They have served their role and it is time to resign and retire.
Mugabe is not a uniting force anymore. He has become a symbol for division pretty much like Adolf ******. He is just an old man hiding behind a suit and his hordes of security men and puppeteers. Even the great Fidel Castro relinquished power! South Africa has seen more democracy than Zimbabwe. Change has swept across most of Africa and it is now knocking on the door in Harare.
We the Zimbabweans across the globe unite and in one great voice we shout, “Enough is enough, No more Mugabe and his regime, No more suffering, we want a new and better Zimbabwe! We want a government for the people! We want jobs! We want local industries! We want agricultural growth! We want a country that works!”
My recommendation to Mr. Mugabe is that he researches about the Seppuku ("stomach- or abdomen-cutting") or harakiri (“cutting the belly") and practises it. This is a form of Japanese ritual suicide by disembowelment. It was originally reserved for samurai. Part of the samurai bushido honour code, seppuku was used either voluntarily by samurai to die with honour rather than fall into the hands of their enemies (and likely suffer torture) or as a form of capital punishment for samurai who had committed serious offenses, or performed because they had brought shame to themselves.
Change is coming to Zimbabwe whether the old guard want it or not. The police black boots will not able able to intimidate this away. No oration or rhetoric will sweep this change under the carpet. This is different from the attempted changed introduced by the MDC a few years back. This change is not sponsored by the British or Americans. This change is motivated by the gross incompetence of the sitting government and it is empowered by the resolve of every true Zimbabwean to see a better and healthier Zimbabwe that offers a lucrative future for our children. This change is 100% Zimbabwean and is not about colour, creed or background.

Fought
One, Twenty-two skidoo.
Cantankerous mad filamous

She,
That of her,
Me.

Piñata, stretched balloon
Over my big fleshy
******.

Tea and cakes,
Painted my nails
Painted my lips
Like candy.

Gold trinkets,
Pour like mercury out of my ear.

Ouch! I cried
My feet in hot sandy
Dreams.

Flying peacocks tickle
My *****.

Oranges roll on chalk board tables
Over stale rye bread.

***** dribbles out like mucus
And a runny nose.

Toilet paper and rusty water.
******* on you.

Stocking lover.

Fetish cover.

Woman pusher.

Mellifluous ****.

Look at my skin.
Pink, beige, peach, red
Porous, greasy, bacteria ridden hide.

**** me like seppuku,
Smother, suffocate me with
Red jelly jam.

Lubricate your finger with black
Cancerous ash.

Stick it in my naval,
Unravel my umbilical cord
Like so many filaments of my heart.

Tear your flesh
You auto *******.
Rip your liver

And force feed it
Corn and maize
Hay and grass

Emory my nails against
Red barn walls
Until bare skin fundamentals

Kisses with salty lips
Inflame my ravishing
Pig stomach.

Kick my shin you
Everything,

Wake up you stupid
*****.

Void can be blue skies,
Oceans call for suicide.

Kiss me with delight,
Raspberries tattooed
In my *****.

Strawberry cream
Vanilla, milk,
Ponderous infinity,

Cotton, dough
Honey and sage.

Caustic gastric
You and not me.

Feel my legs,
Touch my thighs,
Lick my lips,
Give me anything
Not direct.

Tie me up in complexities.
**** my head up.
Put me in a dream,
Make me happy.

Blair Butterfield 2004

The revolution left you spinning, now you’re sitting where you stood,
Can’t go back to the beginning, wouldn’t fight this if you could,
In the garden that you hated, where nothing has ever grown,
Under shadows where we waited, until the light left us alone,
With our indifferent indecision, and stolen bottles in your car,
We’ll drink until we’re happy here, happy with who we are,
Reaping the rewards of repetition, less memorable memories,
Stumbling sick with superstition in the safety of disease,
But come morning better angels will be beating down our doors,
With tools in hand, their best-laid plans will build us better wars,
Daydream a hero’s fate, but I was too late, lost on that battlefield,
Too dull to be that sword you fell on, and far too weak to be your shield,
Now left with a threadbare chair and TV glare, a dusty driver’s seat,
That unworn path and drunken sailor’s laugh, still mourning my defeat,
But I can’t go back or throw it all away, the things I never meant to be,
A castle built on compromise, a pile of clothes shaped just like me,
So maybe now is not the time to sit and count the things we’ve lost,
How can we admit defeat, when so much hell remains uncrossed?

"I can hardly wait
(My friend the diabetic)
to taste the poison."
He takes seppuku serious;
So many sweet things are here!

She cried and screamed at the edge of that cliff
until she tasted blood in her mouth
and her body collapsed
into the dirt, spent and shaking.
They led her away from the edge,
one officer looking down at the ravine,
her lover's crumpled, broken body
shattered at the base of the cliff.
Two days later, she followed him.

I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would spend countless hours writing poems for you.

I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would perform seppuku so not only I could remove the pain of you being with another man,
but I could show you all of the scars in me that you left behind.

I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would construct convoluted, conniving catastrophes in which every man that hurts you gets the plague.
I would spend hours on your facebook hoping for a hint that you still care,
And not care that the amount of time spent thinking about the idea I have of you could be used to possibly pursue another,
Though all I want is to be wrapped in beautiful white cloth with you,
Swinging slowly in the warming sunlight and talking about nothing but everything is felt instead of heard and the intentions of what is said become blindingly more important than what is heard.

I don’t love you.
But if I did,
I would hold it deep inside, though the sight of your car outside his house at three in the morning and the news of your new job and new tattoos drive pins covered in ‘I love you’ into the pit of my stomach, promptly followed by bowling ball to knock them down.

I don’t love you…

…*but if I did, I would pretend that I don’t.

I will retaliate with his mouth,
and you will become what you have made
me.
-- you leave me to stagnate;
talking myself in and out of love, I
forget the curvature, and allure of your body,
and the parts of me that fit in it
starve.

-- call it neutrality, abandonment,
or an "inability to live within" yourself -
call it your serotonin's-seppuku, or
the fact you are inconsiderate;

call it out, like you did in your sleep: "I love
you;"
I do not.

You bow to only one master
You're heavenless edge
Knows only blood and strife
You ravage wrinkled villages
Execute orphans that witnessed pained
You modern samurai
When does your blood lust end
When does leaving scars
Stop turning into ******
Another swing
Another wrist torn open
Another slash
Another **** on hips meant to hypnotize
Our youth can't survive 
Your homicidal tendencies
They only want to be shown love
Yet you tempt them with teeth bore
Stealing midnight kisses 
In shadows of their tears
Awakening only more fears
You modern samurai
Lay down your sword
It'll only bring you more pain
No need for armor
Lend me your burdens
Bury your worries 
Sheath your past
Walk into a future
One designed by your own hand
No need for acts of seppuku
This world holds too many sorrows
Hiding from this life
You'll never be able to face death
You modern Samurai
Hold steady your ways of honor and courage
But fight no more
Grow old and wise
Teach the young the way
Of a swordless Samurai

A glistening, shimmering, cardinal room flushed with  light.
Bright, white, pale, ghostly light that reveals those I conjecture to be the sick.
A pounding, loud rhythm lulls any intellect I still grip.
A fierce, shallow, pained pulse shakes my blue streaks.
All words escape me.
Yet all emotions haunt me.
The sickness draws near, weilding to be a blurry brass.
It feels me, touches me, handles me.
Hurts me.
A once well-kept health now littered with purple smudges.
The violet raindrops on my skin slowly dissolve to a sickly yellow.
Bones inside my complex anatomy quiver, tremble, threaten to crumble.
Yet, it's all over in slight second.
The crimson, glowing, glittering, sentient walls seem to cave in.
The next level, the next trial.
Blurred brass now replaced with a stick with no stains.
By now, I have no guesstimate as to why the fight in me faded.
Sccrrraape.
A gentle scrape, blade, cutting,cold edge slices me like paper.
Though my own rust spills, I feel more alive than ever.
My personal pulse and hesitant headache fade to null.
Hot, burning flames lap at my body.
I would never have imagined a sickness so horrifyingly painful.
A simple warning would never have stopped my doom.
Rip, tear, slash.
Guts held within my willing bowl now pour like Seppuku.
Maybe my own subconscious knew that it was more than I could connect too.
What am I now but a corpse?
Carved wood, turning death into a spectacular sight.
Roadkill, squashed within confines of a simple vermilion hold.
Bed head, Split head, and a  coma that came to soon.
A drugged animal, put down for instinctive behavior.
A gift switched around, like a fetus left dead in the womb.

This is a red room

Curvaceous Katie
Her eyes rained stars
Her smile stopped cars
And though I claim she's beautiful
I am indubitably
Not in love with Katie.

I met her through her friend Tracy
Tracy was the quiet type
But Katie went beyond incredible
The type of girl so attractive
That will drive men to commit Seppuku
But I chose not to fall for her.

I thought she was marvellous
One in seven billion.

Time killed itself so it can be with you.

Classic fairytale love is what it was to us. You being the spoiled rich ******* the block and me the poor, lonely expresser who stole your heart as if I could live off the mere heat of it.
We were fated, middle school crushes, High school sweethearts, college lovers. Our closeness judged by the length of time we spent together, and as college kids, our making love was sweeter than honeysuckles, more spiceful than Spanish rice. We had a poetic passion unlike any the world had ever seen
But your love for me wore off fast, you’d acquired a taste for un-sampled  cuisine. That would’ve been fine had I not found out on my own. I found out about them, one or two would’ve been bad, but Six?!?! Do I bore you? Don’t try to wiggle your way out of this, it only hurts me more.
Your voice gets tighter as you ridicule me for my actions, but I can’t hear you anymore. I don’t know you, I fell in love with a love and a lover, not this whorish display in front of me. You yell louder, climaxing my urges, I send a jolting hand fast across your cheek. I already feel the guilt and regret, tears spilling from my eyes, I get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness.
You forgave me.
And somehow we ended up making love that night, only, it was no longer love. My regret fueled me, but I didn’t want to touch you anymore knowing how many hands do so in my absence. Now I thought we should go our separate ways.
We stop speaking but remain on friendly terms as you continue your cheating barrage on  your new lovers. I still have feelings for you, but the betrayal has me cornered in a pit of emotion that’s  steady pulling me down, down, down into an aggressive element.
But we are still friends, right? So I’d like you to come to a show that I’m making, I intend for it to be a wild ride. You watch the crumbling masquerade with painful eyes, the other audience members leave in shock at the agony of the destructed art. The show was a disaster that destroyed any chance at a career I had. You consoled me, filling my head with sweet words and fantasized hopes, keying in my engram of you.
We ended up in bed once more, bare bodies spent as we fell asleep. All it took was a moment of weakness.  I leave you momentarily to doze as until you fall asleep, crazy thoughts run through my head as I stare at my **** body in the bathroom mirror, a body that had been reserved for you. I tried hard to suppress the urges again, thinking of the good times we had and the wonderful love we made, but it wasn’t helping, It was only making my shy, sweet mind turn vicious.
No, don’t make me do this! Screaming in my head as a homicidal idea takes over my conscious mind. She had nothing to honestly do with this! But my rationality ebbs as my snapped heart seeks its retaliation. My world begins to disappear around me as the urge takes over. I am sensually invisible: no hearing, no sight, no feeling.
But the sensation seems to last only seconds before my senses snap back on and I discover what was to be…
What have I done !? Two slits where your cherry-wood brown eyes used to be and the guilty utensil in my hand, a knife, colored crimson all the way to the handle. I panicked in my guilt and got on my knees. No repentence for what I had done, too late and too heavy a burden to apologize.
But there was one way I could make my wrong a right, I could second the wrong. I could join you on the other side and remake what we had. The idea only flashes in my grieving brain, but it’s enough to make me settle on it. I put both hands on the handle, thrusting it heavily into my belly and commit my own honorable seppuku.
Passion killing is what they called it when the authorities arrived. Two long time lovers, dead before the dawn, I was influenced deeply by my mind, and my heart was betrayed by it. But now I guess we both know the extent of a betrayed Poetic Passion.

it would be easiest to switch the lights off
and bemuse whether there's a light-bulb
in the room.

but of course psychoanalysis originated
in the upper tiers of society,
where people found dreams unappealing
unless interpreted by third party
associates of psychiatry and put into nice
and neat boxes of theory...
of such people we know as perhaps neither
butchers or surgeons, who's only
obstructions in life were but dreams,
and dreams in themselves also obstructive
because of lack of coherency and soluble
meaning, perhaps even not sexually potent
enough; only now the backlash of
digging into the unconscious greedily like
dwarfs mining for precious jewels,
to have merely woken a flip side of all
that theorising that came from the 19th century,
you hear so much of the balrog that slay durin vi,
this bane of durin: oh it walks among us,
it does indeed - with a cartesian duality whip
of medicinal splinters etched into an almost
dark ages account of knowledge: to have us
treat mentality and physicality of a negation
of ease as equally paired to be chiral -
indeed politicians speak of mental health and
physical ailments as distinct - but gentler
the thought pressing down on the cranium
than an elephant in stilettos likewise - but why
so? for all this previous theorising ambitions
in a safe environment of natural hallucinogenic
encounters of sleep - safe there the egoistic scalpel
of this branch of medicine of a straitjacket -
safe there indeed, and perhaps even more with
a placebo effect acceptable; but by god!
this scalpel wants to censor thinking, even
thought that extend into our ontological bereavement
of being but mortal - even if suicide is a problem,
the more methodological such thinking becomes
the more ineffective it becomes, and for some
strange reason, thoughts of suicide (when trained)
have this strange way of prolonging mortality,
the *carpe diem of reasoning, after all, all things
possess the concern for two things that interchange,
and in that interchange the + can become a -,
or as i say... take to committing yourself to
a gruesome end... hara-kiri (seppuku), and you won't.

Knock-knock knock-knock*
He-open's door
Oh! What's up doc, how's it go'n? :D
Good'good m'boy, I was just stopping by to share a bit'o news.
Cool, I'm always in the mood for good news :)
I'm :( thinking we ought to take a seat.
Sure thing! :p Right over here next to my seppuku, and bit'o noose

Empire's war flag:
Blood red sun against winter
White as surrender.

Hot weather sweat drag
Swatting at flys and nothing
Looking for something to get you through
Collecting morning dew on your ripped shoes
Trying to understand the blues like B.B. told us
Lovelust, leaking from my eyes when you touch my shoulder
Pitchers poured, ideals gored, truth twisted taut
A lot that could go wrong, all over the world getting lost
The bugs will outlast us, the way we're going
Straight toeing the line, no time to unwind
Running through the minefield blind
Rehearsing the party line
Dont you dare think for yourself
**** your good health
No amount of wealth
will save you
when the world
dies

butterknife seppuku
is my fav way to go

lottsa little deaths
to spread thin

till the last edit
of these things
swims
upstream

away from me