Broken-Oath 惡口 (破れた約束ーー約束されたものを失うこと）

When men and women start to use blatant curses instead of polite euphemisms or even gentler courtesy-words, my heart hurts.
even I know fully deep down there is no difference between cursing and circumlocution, but it is always better when from hostilities towards all manners of things we do not like or do not understand we are cushioned with civility---it is meant as a form of verbal or behavioral oath-bound protection from the pain and fear towards that human abyss of feeling useless and impotent…the protection provided through civilisation and its purpose to safeguard and drive us from our pain and loss to recovery and re-fulfillment of broken things. Those words are meant as medicines (and they are not meant as disposable 'talking-tos' but things that must come true like fairy tales… or else there is no salvation or cure for tears---one should immediately end one's life with no hope for the future--that is the worst kind of medicine and it does not work)
the Asian kind of civic mores, Ri 礼, which is surely completely extinguished or made into languishing and distorted ill-mutants in its native soil China, survives I think in rather good form in Japan, 礼節、敬語、思いやり、丁寧語、お見舞い、花言葉、雅語、ラブレター(「告白」も含めて）、俳句 as far as in know. I know what people have said about Japan or Korea, that to the more liberal-minded people the Asian countries which still retains some ancient Chinese cultural influence and their own native notion of social propriety and moralism that might feel constricted or stifling. But I have to stress that it might not bear direction correlations. I was born in a country that did off all those Old Things in a cultural coup d'etat. It did nothing, if not worsening, to the hanging pall of arbitrarily and senselessly imposed social expectations and dehumanization in what actions and words are allowed, from an oppressive government and racial ethos that ask career or political advancement in all things, even in choosing a spouse or writing poetry (you might be surprised to hear, that all the famous ancient Chinese poems, are demanded to be interpreted as political aspirations for a socialist utopia, or failures due to the aspirations are not socialist---there is no other moral than the ethno-political--there is no paradise other than one on earth with a good economy system). And when you are still forced to do things you hate, it doesn't matter if you address it politely or in a rude way---the more unfortunate classes without education and job prospects always do the cursing, but even you get a big ahead in the world you still shrivel from the weight of rent and property prices, unfair distribution of medical resources and social goods, ill-regulated economy, competition and business-stifling policies (especially bad for artists and writers), costs of education and childcare, gasoline prices, and stability and prospects of employment in hope of a career that would afford to enable children to graduate from a good university which is the basis of everything they have.
Frankly I'd rather have common people of my country speak funny or lurid euphemisms than cursing things all their lives with full knowledge they are acting like eunuchs who verbally abuse jealously every action of the divine Emperor when he is elsewhere hunting or taking more beautiful wives---ressentiment, being jealous in an ill way against almost everything and everyone that looks to be better than them---even imaginary things like an anime character.
It is possible, even the attempt to dissimulate a mask of civility and understanding, while we hate and despise each other or everything in life,
is keeping some kind of order that prevents the fomenting of some ethic and cultural trends that lead to a fall of grace on a grander level ---national, ethic, or on the level of humanity in a whole as a species…gentle words are meant as shields to defend the ears and mind of young, innocent children.
I cannot imagine what would happen if children were not allowed to read good and beautiful things like fairy tales or watch anime---if they were always listening to verbal abuses and ugly things in the world. They would surely grow up to be murderers, raiders and rapists. As that is how your curses bound them to----broken things and broken desires for the real world. You raised them up to a path of evil, for they do not know good and beautiful promises are possible, and then they would do their best---for the sake of survival---to realise every one of the curses you throw at them and the world---destruction. 
Mercy upon your twisted tongue and upraised hands ready to strike the innocent and pure. That is not the way to do it.
Men should vent. it is a biological reaction to what stimulates him to living. he must express anger and frustration too. Otherwise propriety alone would breed only Victorians, who are not truly great and mighty people by any definition even through a rosy lens of enthusiasts ("gothic lovers"), they were a stock troubled with lack of creativity and sexual impotency, and many follies in science, especially in medicine. They sent women to mental asylums for reading novels. Their world is riddled with fact-fictions with no explorations of truths, and fortune-grasping tales or penny dreadfuls that only serve the sensuality instead of being of literary worth. Their morals of how to be good and become good in life have become such a myth, a lady wrote a children's novel called "The Secret Garden", in which a very ill girl that needs medical and psychiatric attention, and support from the family was instead said to be magically cured, by roaming like a hungry wolf cub in a menagerie of sick and boring flowers for some years thinking and seeking nothing but waiting to be cured by miracles. They also invented that kind of panacea for all kinds of illness, for especially neurotically orders which needs pharmacological intervention, of forcing a patient to lie down on the bed sedated for as long as the patient does not recover from it----waiting for that miracle of returning health. This I know more than the most, as I received exactly this kind of treatment for my own illness-- before I was told, in wonderment, that I should take pharmacological chemicals that can regulate and ameliorate errant brain activities to reach a state of health. Who could have thought, that science works in medicine? if you have lived with those Victorian conditions you would understand what I mean.
Instead of what Victorians did --- oppressing all kinds of resentment and hatred---stamping them out with moral high grounds and demand for propriety, there should be a clever and polished way for their release---and to good use, for good purpose too---for the sake of creation and contribution to the fortitude of life. Poetry and art should be that channel, not only to vent the anger, but to cure---to slay ignorance, impotency and fear…it is a spear to address the illness that drives you to curse things…if you must curse your neighbors, spouses, children, humanity and the entire world human dwells in, do it kindly with nuance, wordplay, metaphors, even metre or rhyme, through some heroic or tragic pathos---and above all you need to find senses or reason for that drive---so you may know why and have mastery over it. you can write, draw, make films, post truly sapient things on the internet (that are not "I am so clever" kind of thing but expressing attempt to unveil, undress and divest follies and mysteries to reveal real and true things) that is more healthy than watching Hollywood films and superheroes. leave Americans to those things. they cannot imagine a world of beauty without some air-raid bombings or blasting cultural or anti-cultural noise and clamour, superiority in technology making those material people chosen divines, and women forever maimed and tormented by marriage and genetically decided good looks. they cannot conceive the old poetic beauty because they do not understand the real is not beautiful. the real world is an ugly, hurting hunchback boar big as a mountain that charges at every one of your attempt to make life true to your heart. you are always wounded by it. the wounds are not beautiful. for the wounds are real, it is proof of impotency and folly. what are beautiful is the cure for wounds…even imaginary cure---Power and Wisdom…health-giving zephyr that defies its insalubrious birth (according to old Chinese astronomy classics, zephyr was born in winter solstice in extreme west where the sun dies…it was born in hell),
---the Spring that smacks and pounds the ugliness of reality into the beauty of imagination---truthful imagination.. it is true because it is human, and human can only live to become truth, for nothing else exists if it is not true…even madness and delusion, or mistakes, are just part of the long-stretched everlasting textile of truth being unfurled by life's walking and demystification. it is true by participating in the river that flows to Eternal Truth itself, even being fictious…words hold power even lording over the real…for it is surely "what matters", and "what must become true", for those are good.
There is nothing sadder to hear broken oaths, ----curses in other words. As that means people are saying "so those are not true" "so we do not know" "so we do not understand" "we cannot do that". It is the breaking of all human oaths---promises humanity tells itself---"these and these things are true, for I live truthfully, and therefore become and protect only truth. the truth that is beautiful." But when an oath is broken, the meaning of those old sworn oaths, their power of protection and becoming are lost. it becomes ugliness and futility. And when a broken oath remains in its broken form, it yet becomes another kind of oath----that we "may not possess truths", and that we "may not keep our promises", therein lies the humanity's fall of grace. "For we are not powerful, we are doomed to die, we are false as a form of life, we are not real as a species, we are nothingness".
Against each broken oath, or curse, must come a form of revenge---a renewed oath or pact in equal measure or more, so to rebind us to that bonded process of life---that we are true and becoming truth--good and beautiful truths. In olden times if a man were wronged they swore revenge and set on doing it, with "a blade or an axe in hand and treading upon sandaled feet" ---like Conan the Barbarian, or Hamlet, that was good course of action against evil of nonexistence, or futility. It was usually justified, the rage, and the methods they used to exact revenges were often considered good, revitalizing old values or at least necessary for becoming good( though there is hypocrisy in this too…that often in justified rage we forget what are truly necessary, and whether can there be better ways.). That was called a hero and his heroic vengeance, and it was an ancient ideal of the theatre that may or may not happen in the stage of reality, and in songs and poetry they sometimes ended up with success, but even in these fiction works they more often met with tragedy---for life is unforgiving and hard, which is the truth. But still we love tragic heroes' doomed revenge against broken oaths. For that harshness of the world should not become the entire reality, but It is the path to truth…that there might be hope for hero's success in some other forms…it is not obvious in the play itself… it is what we must think for ourselves in the extended stage----our own life.

But if people cannot become heroes themselves they needs must form an army as a reaction to their destroyed promises and their values----that was called a war. that was not ideal, and most often undesirable, but inevitable, or necessary for the biological reaction to run its course to fulfilment. Against broken oaths they strive against it for revenge, usually in violent ways. 

Their causes may or may not justified---do not be so naive as to see history with a hero-worshipping boy's eyes. Most often the method was brutal and senseless, the stratagems are opportunistic and do more wrong than good intentions. It may cause more evil than justice by itself. But it is as it is--- expression of physiological reaction like defaecation or ejaculation. It is by itself ugly for it is realer than the revenge of heroes. And it more often leads us astray from truth…and leads towards destruction. For we do not have time to view the war as if it is a play on the stage---that priviledge belongs to those who come after us. A war is neither to be averted too willingly or desired too willingly. One must think of whether the ways of the heroes----a just and ingenious struggle against evil, is possible before setting on full-out war. For in war there are too many uncertainties and dumb things, we cannot learn or become stronger through war---we can only learn through its aftermath, and its impressions upon our intellectual being---wounded and require something back.

That is another kind of revenge. It was reserved for the future, for children…or in the present for especially physically unimposing or by time and circumstances their ability to act justly and cleverly is restricted. It was the battle of imagination, and triumphs of wise-fools in words and their understandings as opposed to triumphs of heroes in action (if they exist as real things). It is the triumph of the writers and orators. It works in shadows and illusions. It is meant to dissimulate with alterations through imaginative willpower, to cover up, change the stress and rhythm of natural order--- it is meant to express a natural state of conscious existence against the natural or man-caused circumstances and situations that suppress or threaten it. It is literary revenge---it is making songs and verses and wisecracking-aphorisms. Do understand this is slightly different from logicians, scientists and mathematicians who do perform real actions, and influence the world directly through the application of information, this is more of a guesswork and theoretical-only kind of job, a kind of blind bite of a rabid dog when it is driven to a mad corner. It was old Philosophy---the philosophy of Boethius, Jesus of Nazareth, (and other prophets I will not enumerate out of respect for their possibly different cultural understanding of them), of Caractacus, of Budda, of Shakespeare and of Homer, of director Kurosawa, Werner Herzog, of Blake, of Robert e. Howard, of Little Prince and Peter Pan, of director tatsuki たつき監督 famed for kemono friends and kemurikusa…it is a list that cannot be enumerated as it is on-going generating process---it is not history yet, but the current and now we are live in---- we who are neither heroes or decorated soldiers…we tamed and cultivated humans of 21 century, knowing and suffering wars sometimes, but most of time being oppressed under the booming ennui of a new world order that strives for quarterly and annual economic and social progress, and too suffer personal or national misfortunes----sometimes better, sometimes worse in comparison with ancients. But who is to be the judge? can sorrows be compared quantitively? (does the loss of a pet dog not equal to the loss of west Roman Empire?)
---and we are the ones who know the pain of broken oaths foremost--we were promised by our social order so much more than our predecessors that joined the majority---and the oaths were broken in a furthermore dangerous way too. for against those broken things, we have no remedy from imagination----no curing kind of philosophy or religion of the old, as like Blake had thought, enlightenment thinkers, sociologists and existentialists with their modernized morals stressing on common understanding or sympathy in place of personal emotional or intellectual experience----and of course the old dragon of disposable labour market "colonial or capital slavery of all skin colours", and uninspired dominant cultures like those badly made imaginary landscapes of American cinema and cartoon( with their idiotic, self-ridiculing, unmusical canine humour, sometimes baring fangs and bites at things for no reason other than delusion or boredom), makes being human and expressing what is a human being a rather dictated process and a struggle against prevalent madness of our situation----time and place---and struggle for the security of our own sanity too.. There is to be a set---a demanded way to recover from all kinds of trauma. Shrinks and their opinion on how your private mind functions---that you are a social animal and do herd-thinking foremost. Although I am neutral in whether psychiatry could become true medicinal science, I have my doubts, for it surely did not cure me by telling me my social purpose and destination in life…and I am a man with true neural illness and a crisis of faith---and was saved from suicide by reading Boethius and ever17 (the visual novel)---from the profound depths of black letters there is healing---in becoming sorrowfully philosophical I take the rein of my chariot of Life that is set on the path to that steep cliff and drives it towards the path meant for truth in beautiful things----this is how I cured myself, by despising all the world as a sham-pageant of ugliness and set out to destroy it all with wonders out of this world. Escapism, or rather idealism triumphing over realism.
And an Arabian friend of mine in a university town in Britain, we did nothing much apart eating a meal of kebab. That was the most important and delicious meal of my life.
So that is your data to think about, psychologists and psychiatrists. I must stress human consciousness is not a sociological model, it is instinctive on a personal level. the consciousness is artistic. it dreams and reads syllables as music, it desires the wings of birds so it drives men to kill it with a rifle. it is wrangling with raw creative power that makes thoughts seemingly ridiculous or unreal possible, in a violent struggling way, for humanity has imagination…painful and sad imagination, and isn't it also important to make that imagination like that of an innocent child a method to realize cure? by transforming imagination as a guided pathway to truth and the river of becoming truth itself? by making sorrow itself, not negating its own sad nature---not find aims in other places---other virtues to abstain from tears and find ways to prevent it---but make the morbid and soul-tearing experience of sorrow itself a Powerful and empowering thing? that we become fearless of misfortunes and tragedies, and from learning becoming their masters also? that we truly conquer them by understand them---the doom of mankind? 
For example, this idea I hold as a fact and inalterable truth----so long as there are pretenders of Rome out there, their schemes for global enslavement will fail unless they undo the bondage of Roman values and the hope of a united Imperial province of a shared common ethos and industrialized purposes----for against them, there is a man who shouts them notion-deaf and filled with philosophical senses called Caractacus. But that is just one example, and old. You can say if they manage to find a way to defeat the venerable ghost of Caractacus the Celtic who momently slew the Caesar-Dragon in a verbal strife, they cannot fight that final gauntlet of Boethius and the medieval age's reflecting on singular Truth, or naturalists and enlightenment, the age of discovery, and that vile expression of violence of oppressed classes in French revolution---though which was a mess and evil---and Rome cannot battle Napoleon…for it must have been over 1000 years since Rome died. And how about progress in science and the influence of Kant, analytic philosophy and empiricism over how science should be conducted? How about the flourishing of English and German idealist, or romanticist art and poetry? How about Poe, Shakespeare and William Blake whose eulogy Romans knew not? How about Nietzsche and his disillusionment of human species in relation to Truth? How about the theory of biological evolution, discovery of genetics, antibiotics, standardized and hygienic medical practices and vaccine? Do we who experience, feel and live, make pacts and oaths to protect things we hold dear of our own time ---Right Here, Right Now, within Our Lands that belong to Us, for our own province of Emotions and Desires, are we to suffer some ghost-system of values from a barbaric empire thousand years ago whose opinion was that a united political entity regardless of other races and cultures perspectives should lord over and command all that are truth, real and living to their own liking, as long as they are alive upon this earth (that are not born from us, or me, an individual existence)? that is not true governance if they act in ignorance of the entirety of the dimensions of people they are meant to govern…there is no scientific basis for it to succeed. ignorance of what people are and what they feel and think breeds foolish policies that constitute injustices done to persons on a national scale and if they enforce those injustices, there will be many broken oaths and failed promises, hatred, rancour, and the call for revenge. This is purely biological reaction they cannot curb with ideological repression. You do not ask a man with neurotical disorder to read their thesis on ideologies and their expectations for the civic societies and its order, the role of a citizen--- that is cold and uncaring, foolish and evil, most of all, treating population as livestock instead of existences with ability to think and imagine good and bad things for themselves---that they think people are not philosophical with their mind and imagination and are animals who only see illusions. Mental and imaginary powers of human beings are real, truthful and exist. They also lead to that river of eternal truth, or otherwise from my heart no thinking other than that of a machine's naked formulated certainty would flow. Why do we pursue the goodness of scent, colours, taste and texture of dream---those we know to be unreal and depart from the actual world of being? Platon hated poets because he was too ignorant in verse-making and how it works and drives the world and humanity, and is rather perversely cantankerous in refusing to consider that possibility altogether---for "how can what I do not know or feel be the truth?" His republic of ideas was doomed, as he thought poetic sentiment wouldn't drive people to revolutions. French revolution and American revolutions though very sordid and ugly things they were, they are also a proof that a system of governance ignoring shadows and phantoms born of the heart and ask only for clarity and out-of-the-world kind of intention and purpose would fail. For that is not the Only Truth. That is the shadows and phantoms called "enlightenment" against "darkness of heart", born of their own caves which they did not seek to explore, and in finding that illusion called "light of reason" they thought themselves already out of the cavernous abyss and better than everyone else. Then it needs to be proven. And are not the current crisis in the mental fortitude and faith in living of the entire humanity, edging upon possibly yet another war the proof that they did not see things---like how deep the abyssal cavern of human is, and "light" without knowing the shades it cannot reach, is not enough to fully illuminate truth? 
They need a Devil. A she-devil against reason, a beautiful she-devil born to demand reason out of reason----why do we need reason at all?
They did not harbor that seductive devil Sagakuchi Ango  and Japanese  writers born of his time knows, in the form of a beautiful blonde eastern-woman in luxurious beggar's kimono (like those women in Nine Stages of Decay 九相図), always asking them---the Lords of the realm, each time as if a princess demanding things unreasonably---which they are driven to please for the sake of how lethally beautiful she is,
though when they think or reason, the Woman would pester them out of manner or form, ---asking, importuning that a damning question that is to confiscating their life time's effort with the attitude of a immodest courtizan---feigning to please, it is a very eastern kind of doom for philosopher-kings…they should have known how powerful those fatally beautiful women can be to those who think only with reason----the forgotten senses of inmost heart was readily seduced as if they were teenage children, by this one question :
"Milord, so, Why"? 
"Why is it so?"
"Why are you the Thinker, milord?"
Then they thought they were being deceived by some invented beauty without, and they were in a crisis of cultural and moral decay, and started to devise ways to oppress that natural expression of truth in people's heart, then I suppose against their denial, the Princess then demanded:
--"Milord…thus you spake: 'Not so'"
"So…"
"Why 'Not so'?"
"Why are you the Thinker, milord?"
"Why are you 'so, and 'Not so', Milord?"
western Philosopher-Kings born and bred on reason are powerless against the power of eastern Daji. Ask Nietzsche all about it, he wrote a loveletter to that woman in his Dithyrambs. I will paraphrase: 
"I am only a poet, I am only a fool!
I am blinded…
I crave to be under her feet her humble ground's support ,
or upon her rosy palm only an instrument or a tool!
A man cannot say he is a friend or wooer of truth without having that unreasonably pouncing darkly orange phantom of
uncreated she-tyger residing in his heart dancing aflame.

His desert heart….he grows mad seeing greenness spit forth yellow blossoms,
the lake of his solitary-grown oasis turns blue and naive like a maned-sleeping westly Beast.
That daemoon was born from broken oaths, for he was unfulfilled;
She swears fair the European words in over-polite and pompous Asian tone, the ceremonial eastern-curses.
The daemoon's yearn is to have a Jaden vessel bearing all broken promises ---
she cajoles and conjures the fleeing pieces to the round paradisial void in her hand.
that was why her shadow lengthens and stretch upon the lake, i suppose
shadows dance when you wish for 'the twin suns {to} sink behind the lake,',
the sky sinks to the stillness and immersed itself with moaning silence,
In desert 'Carcosa' anon Cathay,
the river draining the mud-fields run yellow with sake-decay,
Where the dark gravity of matter too is bound by a bloodied silver string,
Pulled by the shadily purple-beamsome region of cavern upon the Moon,
(Yue Lao, he was a country…)
…where beats agape like rushing current of darkness his heart.
the heart of Truth above overpouring towards dull earth's all dead and staid star-light down below.

Thus they all lead to one and only thing that exists in the universe, which she yearns the most of all----
Truth.
Truth-Always.
Truth-and-Only-Truth."
"Eternal Truth."
from my heart. from my heart that is the beating universe.
"And 'why' is it?"
"Why is it 'Not'?"
Could such a Thing be True?
Perhaps it is better to refrain from curses, or else you would ruin this beautiful poem by Nietzsche.

………………..
bubbling thoughts… this is a mess of mine after reflecting on what is above me.
Westerly-facing-entombed philosopher-kings in their blue naive nativity are all thus tatter-robed in green
by eastern dakini-daemoon seduced, the flighty tempest-devil of the Moon
beggar-leper-queen.
Man of reason contends in futility, as if sound in nose and light in mouth to bend,
against Woman of beauty, in eastern wonderland…with that inklingly-black inkily-dyed, hoofless-history-tracing horse-broom brush-pen.
who rests upon inkstone made of ink-shoe'd oxen-horns gently shorn.
Daji Dakini an das spricht dann darum daran
(thus Daji the Dakini upon this thing spake like so then): 
"Wo Woo Woe, Why O, Why A, Why U."
"Y-O-A--ru."
"Why…O A-ru---a, O A ---ruha…Milord…aa…O…soooo, Why"? 
"Why is it so? O Woe is it so?"
"Whyyyy O a----riru…O Milord..Why O are you the Thinkerrr- O ru, milord?"
(O Patrick, Son of Patrick, Patrician of Rice-Paddy
Why hast thy form been long-and-tall out-stretched?
When thy shadow remains on the earth, lingering, a spot.
which we mark with cairn and mound--O Patrick. Why hast thou become,
a Pole long and stretched, Patrick. I see you hang backwards.
leg overstretched with pain from the world-tree.
Below the ancient Byd-ôl Tree where hanged eternity's corpse.
the severed foot of God 
---reimagined from the broken Irish keenings linked below at *1)
Then they thought they were being deceived by some invented beauty without, and they were in a crisis of cultural and moral decay, and started to devise ways to oppress that natural expression of truth in people's heart, then I suppose against their self and world denial, the Princess then demanded:
--"O 'Not so' Ara muja….O..Maja…Milord…thus you spake: 'Not so' O Woe"*1
"So… amuja amaja…O sorrow….O aru--a airu…"
"Why 'Not so'?"
"Why 'Not so'? Why are you..O so..airu ..marajah…Why are you..uuuu…a-ru, the Thinker, milordo?"
"Why, Oooo yelm are you 'so' , O Lordom,
O rahj..maaa..ja…sooooo-O so-ru,
O Why are you Not…so-a-ru, and Not 'Not so',
O maja, Milord?"
()
western Philosopher-Kings born and bred on reason are powerless against the power of eastern Daji. Ask Nietzsche all about it, he wrote a loveletter to that woman in his Dithyrambs. I will paraphrase: 
"I am only a poet, I am only a fool! O airu…O Poesia-mè (ame of ame "soul of rain")
I am blinded… dynasty of Song…drumming like painful gild-wrapped women's steps.
I crave to be under her feet her humble ground's support , 
O barrenness, O Chimera of defect.
O Dakini-rahjini-mayasya. O universe of unliterate songs.
or upon her rosy palm only an instrument or a tool!
eastern, too eastern were the notes forgotten by funeral suona 嗩呐.
I ---O my dolour..my odour 香.
my dolorous sorrow d'or 薫.
that I sowed 想.
A man cannot say 人ならず
I can say No-Man　ならず人
he is a friend or wooer of foe---truth to choose, 帰真返樸
without having that unreasonably pouncing 藏龍臥虎
O darkly orange phantom of, meaning my own 杯弓蛇影
uncreated-scrab she-tyger residing in his heart flaming dancing aflame. ("A Poison Tree", Blake)  Flight. 
Burn, fright. Flight-Fright-Fight. Foe of Forest. Foreign. ("Tyger", Blake)

His desert heart….he grows mad, mumbling Man.
seeing greenness spit forth yellow blossoms from his tongue.
the moon yells in decrescendo. it searches for Al-dorado.
the lake of his solitary-grown oasis turns blue and naive
like a meaded-sleeping westly Beast eaten succulent Feast.
the boon of broom is laid gentleman-like upon the bleached-bones.
eye-woad blended, eye-sore'd, Kirkby Kendal.*2
That daemoon was born from broken oaths, for he was unfulfilled;
he sings but breaks off into a croak. people moack.
She swears fair the European words in over-polite
and pompous Asian tone, Song, the ceremonial eastern-curses.
'O Airu, O where is fair my Airu.' O-i-aru. I-aru O.
The daemoon's yearn is to have a Jaden vessel,
bearing ruddy-tawnily all broken promises ---knell, vessels;
kneel vassals. bend thy knees, to the Song.
to the Dynasty of Song.
she cajoles and conjures the fleeing pieces
to the cylindrical paradise in her hand, the sound bends.
the light in an arch towards her palm tends
It is made of brazen bronze, and resounds when beaten unforbidden
verboten Palace shroud'd in gold-rimmed purple clouds.
the blue-rust shakes off when the messenger came upon the horse of Khan
black-blooded, O Corn, Ochon("óchón), five-inchling first Cousin once removed,
flying-messenger from the Dynasty of Song
that was why her shadow lengthens and stretch her legs upon the lake, i suppose
the rippling meadow takes up the beep-pop sheep's uprooting cause
shadows dance when you wish for 'the twin suns {to} sink behind the lake,',
bubbles fermented form from herbal liqueur is only the air to take.
the sky sinks to the stillness and immersed itself with moaning silence,
In desert 'Carcosa' anon archaic Cathay,
lying like a shiny shark-bellied needle with gemmed green eye-beads
upon hearth-sere the yellow and rotten pile of straw-littered May
the river draining the mud-fields run yellow with sake-decay,
και και και και (Kai, Kai, Kai, Kai.. 'and' 'and' 'and' 'and')
Where the dark gravity of matter too is bound by a bloodied-silver string,
pulled pearl purling bondage-ring.
Pulled by the shadily purple-beamsome region of cavern upon the Moon,
t'was tout-driven by the tides, and shot-penetrating swiftly by the Monsoon. 
(Yue Lao 月老, he was a country…) built upon ink's foundry.
in the shadows of the twin Moon.
mounted archer-calvary. vivid or fire -arrows peppery.
the black-boon-blooded horse feeding upon green mead of
North-Eastern Gentry. bearing Moonlight-cup 夜光杯.
old bubble wabbling and warbling in lunatic tune. horse-whistle （欲飲）琵琶馬上催.
Lord, O Lordo O Lordom. in his savage breast. ("Sea-farer", I am perhaps once)
…where beats agape like rushing current without rest, 
(whose fountain was it? do I receive food from Urizen's daughter's
brought iron-wrought bread-basket?
Am I the dreaming "Kaspar"?)
of darkness of his heart.
the heart of Truth and Truth-defying, like a pounding pestle
upon moon-mortar blasting. pounding vajra-pen.
(月付きつきつきつきつきつづき）
above, over-pouring frowards, inkling to-wards
dull earth's all dead and staid sad star-light
down below. frozen downy-dew.
a quietude…a wild cricket in the bush, impish-perturbitude.
a lark's cage. a sound of ichor-frothing mourn
the bent-bow of Chinese violin. sing Ching, Ching!
Ching! Ching! sing, Song is crying!
a shimmering lake enlightened, by a black and lying snot-stone.
once a-wise drunken Hazel, perhaps now a sad-corn. (coldest harvest..for "sea-farer")

Thus they all lead pretending to one and only thing
that exists not in the universe, which she yearns the most of all, the tall----
and mighty Truth. Troth. tall and mighty betrothing.
Toothsome choice of a silent whine. (s---wine)
Truth-Always. Tomb-Tooth. Sour and sore, things from which we abjure.
(s---igh)
Truth-and-Only-Truth. Like a pearl, whirling (tOt)
held and cherished, gyrating…ravished nightly
In dancing human orcish oral orangutan cavity that is by bivalve a shell. (OtO)
(in a) nut-shell." (T (bios)--->)
A ring. Ring-Ado. "ToT". Tod. (Ring of Toutatis)
Toutatis ToTalis. Tout-Everything. (Ouroborous, boustrophedonic)
"Eternal Truth." (beTrothing, turn and turn)
from my heart. from my heart that is the beating universe.
Beep-Pop, Bop-Pop. Bubbles. ("Bubble Freedom" バブルフリードむ）
"And 'why' is it?"
O my heat yearns, Oiei. (the shadow reflection of Io. that I see within my ink)
灯影飾り枕 Tooei. (Who is Psyche, Who is Eros? Where is my Dawn? What is my Dusk?)
"Why is it 'Not'?"
Hot! Hot! It was too Hot! ("and the flame that dances brilliantly upon the coal that is the in-dwelling of universe is…black") 
Could such a Thing be True?
Coo, Coo, Coo, Coo. 
Coo, Coo, Coo. (fourth, third. I am Twice. who are You?)
Wondering…
Cuckoo. Cocoon. 
Bogd-Khatun. (is she their daughter? was her parents union blessed by the universe?)
Divine Administrix---Holy Mountain, (my Adriadne, my world-labyrinth…)
liable to be unreliably exist 
upon the purpureal-shadow'd surface
of the Moon (月に叢雲）
私は風。Ventō.
….
This I took from Nietzsche and mixed with mine.

*1 When I imagined the Woman I described here, I hear Irish keening. And the funeral crying of a couple hired old woman-mourners I heard when I was 16 or so during an authentic old Chinese funeral march, it was incomprehensible to me always---their strangely accented and intoned pronunciation of some out-of-fashion or provincial words, and causes me to wonder often that what despair could have made human capable of producing such a frightening din.

*2
Genisteae - Wikipedia "broom" flower.

Genista tinctoria (dyer's broom, also known as dyer's greenweed or dyer's greenwood), provides a useful yellow dye and was grown commercially for this purpose in parts of Britain into the early 19th century. Woollen cloth, mordanted with alum, was dyed yellow with dyer's greenweed, then dipped into a vat of blue dye (woad or, later, indigo) to produce the once-famous "Kendal Green" (largely superseded by the brighter "Saxon Green" in the 1770s). Kendal green is a local common name for the plant.