"seppuku" poems
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
Jan 11, 2010
Jan 11, 2010 at 7:09 AM UTC
Something is wrong
Always
Confusion and hate
Maybe
Lost in bowels
Sloppy
Like I care
Mortician
Bring the blade
Seppuku
Nov 25, 2022
Nov 25, 2022 at 12:30 AM UTC
"I can hardly wait
(My friend the diabetic)
to taste the poison."
He takes seppuku serious;
So many sweet things are here!
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 2:52 PM UTC
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.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 7:46 AM UTC
Original honour killing,
But the killing of self,
Eviscerate with the Sword,
Samurai Warrior chooses his death,
Rather than an enemy steal his last breath.
Original honour killing,
Bushido; Seppuku,
Disembowelment left to right,
This great honour is fused with a great pain,
Plunged through his skin to make himself pure again.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 6:32 AM UTC
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
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 2:27 PM UTC
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
Feb 11, 2018
Feb 11, 2018 at 9:02 PM UTC
I have forged my problems in cold grey steel,
unfeeling still, my reeling will.
Two to my mind:
One,
I hurt her...
and the other,
vice versa.
A forge full of regrets,
to temper my mind
with worry and upset.
Guilty for my mistakes,
problematic,
a blade I've made,
of panic.
Everything said
shimmers on the shining surface,
a reflective face,
that holds the feeling in place,
with a pommel of folly.
If I could,
I would take this weapon of regret,
that fooled you,
both, and steel myself.
Seppuku.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 3:42 AM UTC
My last word of you was a summer’s seppuku,
The touching of an unknown soul.
As always love chased in life of everything:
Sing! The burning blade!
What more to grasp for,
Too late the tears or the fight.
Deadlings from the beginning to the end, who knew?
Rotting flesh & loose heads on pole,
Under a cherry tree steel to stomach shade.
The ships have all sailed,
War no long of more.
Loose & gone all of my might,
Before me lies the slain, the lost, what left to slew -
Inserted my tanto to hole…
Nov 1, 2021
Nov 1, 2021 at 7:40 AM UTC
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?
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC
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.
May 24, 2016
May 24, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC
*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.
Jan 11, 2016
Jan 11, 2016 at 9:02 AM UTC
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.
Mar 1, 2015
Mar 1, 2015 at 8:49 PM UTC
my heart is pumping its last motions
impaled on sharpened sticks
(of its own fashioning)
each one a lie I told myself
(as if it were truth)
when they ask you -
tell them - yes
hearts can commit seppuku
I witnessed mines do it today.
~ B**tard heart !
Jul 16, 2015
Jul 16, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
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
Feb 2, 2016
Feb 2, 2016 at 12:24 PM UTC
A razor's edge divides
self interest from
selfishness;
warm mea culpa
pools penance
on the floor
at your feet.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 7:07 PM UTC
In case my last to say goodbye,
It all came from a broken heart.
Falling in love from being shy,
To rising high falling apart.
No, it wasn’t for false honor,
Nor suffering for all to start.
From time said, “He was a goner,”
Kissed love not spoken left to ****
To be buried deep in maroon,
We pray not to sleep damnation.
Tears daring to hold back not soon,
What left to read but a raisin?
Old and clamoured not to tell them,
“I love you” - which lonely - seldom…
May 21, 2024
May 21, 2024 at 7:14 PM UTC
Depression always sits on the edge of the bridge that I call my brain ready to throw us both into the deep water where we drown together like a twisted one-man Romeo and Juliet act. Sometimes I let my sick thoughts take control they always wanted what’s best for me like when the self destructive thoughts tried to convince me that it was seppuku and not suicide even though the only deference is the level of holiness. No one should open Pandora’s box and get to know all its secrets. I would rather die than keep on living knowing that people worried about me but my anxiety for death saved me. My biggest inner-conflict is between my depression and anxiety, one tries more eagerly than the other to take control while I walk the bridge of memories and trauma - a alternative history lesson that always begins with once upon a time and ends with a to be continued that might never continue.
Aug 4, 2019
Aug 4, 2019 at 11:27 AM UTC
Oh dear, your just like seppuku
I always spill my guts to you.
The worlds on my shoulder
You let it break my back
We only getting older
And life is sure to teach of that
Now all the colors are a haze
And your voice starts to fade
Disappointment, a taste I can't place
Your fingers , like the sun warming my face
I've been the walking dead for 12 months now
Was going to finish this for you but I'm just not sure how
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 12:24 AM UTC
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
May 29, 2016
May 29, 2016 at 12:35 AM UTC
write a poem during daylight hours, and with day,
as with night, the embodiment of magpie cackle
a laughter resounds; at the zenith...
seppuku;
or as i feel, at the council of Elrond,
with those Celtic ghosts of sirens
once more, candle wax poured into the
blind eyes of Homer to see once more...
into a resurrection of shadows as
thought of embodiment of touch:
that shadows mediate ghostly behaviours and
souls inspect a unifying concept for heretical
deviations of what became of men
with the power of fractions...
such that Odysseus heard them, as i do,
although in another diversion, once more,
that these be the same sirens,
such as they are, Celtic in origin;
i did indeed pour wax into the eyes of Homer
in order to light a flint for sight in him,
and exposed my ears to the song likewise
kindred to Odysseus,
and too went mad...
if only in private, the same lullaby;
so why expect me to be fulfilled with the mundaneness
of what mortals cherish, i wish for a speedier death
having been robbed of a sudden death...
i want a second suddenness, careless as to what
governs life & death: old age -
let me walk through the sudden shutters,
that plague of yours of suddenly turning day to night...
let me pass through this plague once more,
having failed to pass it the first time...
or at least let my ageing superior bury me,
for i have no strength to upkeep a talk of shaded honours,
should all honour be that of oriental principles,
i too am a willing soul to join them from the crippling
standard of what's to be accomplished in the western guise
of wisdom: nowhere else is old age such a curse as here,
when the expulsion of youth begins so early and levers
the gritted tooth's revenge seen later in what's to be
expected via swans' inhibitory kept alliance to the ring,
in joy as in sorrow... i weep my mother's tears,
for no lover was bound to me bold enough to keep a year
in my heart fr me to experience the mundaneness
to rise from a spoon and imagine the sun in the ever changing
form of the moon in daylights... to **** in dreams...
i haven't experienced a single season in Eden...
as in joy, then as too in sorrow...
how prematurely i weep over my grave,
engraved in ashen lettering on the Ganges in that Milky
Way toward Kamad(h)enu... until the last orphan,
and until the first adventure, i too, there.
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 8:01 PM UTC
I've got tunnel vision
Fixated on death
A year passes with every conscious breath
My brain's cell bars seem to be closing on themselves
Mind Solitary confinement
Where my best friend is a dead rat that wouldn't stop talking
I'm slowly but surely crushed to death
He died on his back staring at me with a grin if a rat could ever have one
A million tiny spiders leave its bowels
Insect mandated seppuku
"you even **** at dying you scrap"
Crack
The slowest bone crack if there ever was one
As if bending your bones like rubber before breaking like egg shells
"There was nothing to fear and nothing to doubt"
I guess that's what the song's about
There wouldn't be a better song to die to
Crack
Jun 13, 2018
Jun 13, 2018 at 5:46 AM UTC