Yoshi Corner Essay: Cultivation Eradication

[contention]

"Yoshi Corner Essay: Cultivation Eradication"

It’s to this now and now is it; an entity to our rattled frame, as a frame to soldier’s portrait. Steel slight oblique, heavy brass; reflecting nothing, when nothing is seen. Bent right round and running for end, what loop in loss is loss at fault. Stature blazed in omission, ridged from the dingy scholar; sculpture cement, sickled in Carpenter’s hands. Every ring places on salient bone, but rink shall slip on slickest mire. Steps sliding, a shattered spoke, puzzle connected for stilts; flowing warsh unguided by bay, basking hoarse, roaring like the newborn. Each an own, own in all; Heaven equal on deepest cove, both above yet so alone. Yonder bore, past birth outstretched; sight saw civil, noble knight, enigma held such hilt in feat. Victory saved, streamed in warmth, from coldest stone to steaming blush; duel for honor, deed, and worth when fallen foe betwixt the Earth. Palest rose runs on ‘volving moor: youthful facet, mature illusion; Bottom sea skies spray fountain top: strewing, drenching. Shameless sparks with cunning toes, golden bars for wealthy dreads: casting, flashing amidst a’ droop, travail bid for westward full. Frightful storm, grievous Tempest, two the same yet a verb apart; A whirl in swirl hides the same lie, for the darkest bide remarks inside.

Me myself no longer am I, or when I was had viewed behind. Given chance, we’d slit the strings to heavy hold us over means; sprawling splotches down beneath, such bewildered steep so deep. Among such ledge, what shallow edge, do pry these notching nails; shriveled and shrank, clenching and wrenching, biting in stone for hope and faith. Yet hope has lost, and faith retreats, battered in some fellow sleep. We came abrupt, we stumbled within, questioned by nature and riddled in source. For now we move, we move in herds; galloping by in shepherds draw. It’s there we stroke, our necks in the grass, grazing with peace and gnawing with steed. We are blind, struck-eyed and frail to the barren sands around; that swirl of string and kneeling ash are nothing more but father’s beasties. Perching our toes, we hear his hymn, a type of maleficent praise; some ritual words, our sacrifice shared, all to lust and half to greed. How it deludes such sense, covers the bone with thin-lined flesh; starvation is alien, that cringe is but a test for morality. Gardens may bloom but at our feet, and wash away in winter’s retreat. Blushes come, they spread and rake, yet coldest touch doth come to take. Fire sprawls on every stone, by every match, in every hand; to light the torch, to light the tome, to burn the bridge, to take their home. Two eyes are ours, left and right, mixed between what’s black and white; one for another and another for that, to see both front and see both back.

“King, King
Dressed in Crown,
Sprawling robes ag’ainst the ground.
Does he see Assassin scowl,
Heavy feet on margin prowl;
Inked and bleak
Hollowed feet:
Stalking, walking in retreat.
Tilting back, over again:
Stitching, stitching; mend in mend.
What Quilted dealt
By opposite hue;
So different that, from what we knew.”

Such shanty folk embraced in tongue, scraping sprung so dwelled in drape. Eclipsing, eclipsing, stage by depth; stifled lines which light the spire, crest embellished blazing black. Script in play, script construed, acts retold in brandished sight; yours and mine, these our words: spared and scared, deaf yet heard. Rhyme on note, actor’s preach, mummer tied in lightless thread; we the hold on puppet’s belt, swaying to and once again. On wire they trance, what rope so noosed; hung in allusion, knotted in loops. Writhing about, with unseen gest’; eluded by smiles amongst the rest. Savaged and torn from wheat for wine, iron by the ore beside. Marching where the daisies peek, over dale and lifeless speech; ‘till tired rest each wilted weed, bending forth on shallow knee. There react, realize, and gape; far too long, and far too late. How we must dangle, each broken wing flawed, caught in the snap; flawing and awing to flutter for naught, strangled by hand, a hand of our own. Manikin barbed, stapled grim, shades beneath a painted grin. Come to fade, one day is known, working ‘way at every breath; imprint to leave, scar to seethe, memory based in figure’s kind. No marionette glimpse through butchered tone; lifeless bard, carried down, weighed upon by mutest sound. Frail, so like the falling star; sputter high on maternal sky: burn bright, flame light, leave a widow of the night. We are but silver things, platter dishes daintily used, gloomed in aggression, yet smudged by sense.

“False deception, pile of lies;
Truth forsaken, truth despised.
Corner reek
And blindly peek
Into Oblivion where failure seek.
Such joints do pledge
Unwanted dread;
Cold as the hammer,
Fierce as the sledge.
Rising there, within what wall,
Our names in letters,
Our names in all;
Boldly written
Boldly bare,
Foreign token
Is foreign share.
Desolate, waste: empty to side;
Upon the middle, is where we bide.
Brick by brick, pact between;
Crook so stiff does fall to lean.”

One had known this area, disoriented, far from realism; it wasn’t home, yet the feeling sufficed. That aspect remained, of safer surrounding; yet second glance would far settle that word. There was difference though, something open, an empty page; a classic composed, front by back, unknown to farther generations. Maybe that’s why those here lynched, not to be taken lightly; they seemed so cultured, valuable, but indistinctly wary. Unexplainable by any means, their actions were undeniably individual to such a habitat; if not understood correctly, they would appear camouflaged within its scenery. Some had called sunlight the beacon of our world, the firefly that shimmered from eve to prelude; however, if giving, the messenger had not to poke his nose about. Oddly, this home was corrupted by manifestation of industry; flowing smog would bubble and pop, each crackled snap was all to hear. Like petals of snow, brimstone specks would glide under each toe and sole; never to melt, never to leave: caught beneath the slag of a canopy. Night and day were jests here, mere mimes on the walk, meaning nothing to passersby’s; arm over arm, trick for trick: restless never grew spectators spirit, lively never bellowed applause. Few could manage to tell of something beyond the screen, little had belief in the emerald gleams, the palest treads. Here the crowds stood, body against body, that of some gear to their surrounding; to turn was to manipulate another, an effect which ran in rally. Rascals they were, chained not in material but by the weight of zeal; roasting in guilt and boasting feverishly. Pity never reached them, nor traveled such parts; only few a straggler had bit their lip, some disgust of turmoil, turning ‘bout the tide. Where a simple cross had marked the map, alien was the pilgrimage; heretic shrine, a net in trap, entered through here and the doors snapped back.

One stood slant, slightly, what a speckled, cuckled egg; concealed, yet strung, so indifferent. Tantalizing: the rasp of flame’s beseech, curling up and under; light like silver trim, mysterious, inexplicable. Yet lost it remained, confused, senseless; ensued in others, attention be-fixed. Treacherous, it dazed, abhorred by possession; reaching but to draw back, tensing to relax. Composed, it neither remained personal nor private, every subtle movement belonged elsewhere; conducted by assembly, exposed so bare. How it lagged, each step broken from beat; an echo sprung from space to space, returning the same but involuntarily sliced. Fragmented and pixilated could conclude such well, block by block as nothing more but immature relics. What mind seduced, to wander in and simplify behind the kin; skipping forth proved rigged stone, for wavered path was all as bone. Somehow discarded below all weight, what beating hearts that sprung in vain: crushed and shattered, useless tatter. If patience was our mortal virtue, then to these it was but a vice; they shoved like none other, leaping and rocking. Offering no notice of any, as only they be bled blind; left behind with but yellow things: envious glaze, parted fest’. There ahead, still set the prize, its ideals pressed upon an upward dare; cursing with what seemed a wave, barking nonsense to something, but nothing.

Partially waned, deprived, it brewed and spat; continually that is, mouthing false vocabulary, clicking such slit tongue against its grained lips. Every moment something shipped, conjoined jumble; that of a cross-word, all just for show. At seconds so least, it could personify; that embodiment behind a’ looking glass. Originality seemed as nothing more but an abandoned noun, dug out and extracted. Unnoticeably, there was but a single use of the term left; crouched beneath each dashing finger, cuffed away by anger or perhaps some fisted fear. Did it hide from devastation, did it slouch from disposition; unfortunately, one had never parried such confrontation. Girdled, disjointed, misplaced, confined within its shaft; withdrawn of conscience and cast here, this abomination. Beyond what recognition, there lied more: fault which quivered, cowering; holding refuge in insufficient hold, brink upon the trenches. Unwanted, unnatural, once disposed facets never refute the same; whatever flaunted before had fallen, nothing more but an understaged outcast. Removed, misplaced, and abandoned: perfection did not require the means, survival was dominance, and leniency had failed. What useful mass was given remained indescribable, some swirled characteristic, caught within its own trap; peeling at its heels, tearing at the grate, all but useless stride. Mistakenly, there was that of familiarity, yet such remained with all that resided here; if it was known it had been deceived in memory: cropped on landscapes, skewed in swallowed roles. There though, there was something, kept in the curvature of its seal; not like the others, left of the morn’ rise. Beaded and smoothed, like a pearl in splendor, jaded at every cut; from all ends it rushed, fined with a simple glaze. Myself had even wondered of its origin, for it felt of the chimney to the brick; comforted by its radiance, but wayward built in trial.

Still so it erected, bewildered by idealization; unsettled in change, which of the basin rippled. Yet, how I must have looked: motionless, departed; blank scrolls and fabled trumpets were not so the similar, as they offered anticipation, I could hand but none. Perhaps we could not acquire—at least sensibly—each cranny in the crook; we were neither parallel nor proportioned, maybe in tracks of restraint but not by the crossroads of reaction. Whom wheeled ahead and carved behind remained as disconcerted, ask either and observations would translate that of Latin for Jargon. All were but coins and dollars, different only by the inside; such a currency which gains so small.

It could control this, but it could not control itself, situated in each braided weave, the looming stock; watching between those bowed implants, rehashing myself, my types, me. To whom it singled, I remained unsure; by sod though, it squealed as the moldered swine it was, “You stare you know, in one of those underestimated outlooks—unfitting to this self—and where perhaps has your dignity gone to,” through such forbidding wisps it stung, that of a bee without syringe, fruitlessly fleeing from dismal rest. It was but a beam to the structure, mere sulfur, cracking near the edge to bend in.

“Well, excuse me,” my words altered, as that of drip on a sprained sickle, “This wasn’t used to meddle in any certain affair,”—yet it remained quite knowledgeable that such a conversation was the only valued worth for the moment—“One or well, I, could not aid to but notice what situations thrive here. Are you some part, some pawn, disguised in this wry?”

Daunting ensued such question, for it had left the informant quivered in its quill; gesturing in absolution that I had tallied the wrong list. Severely it lowered its brow, meddling fingers against fingers as it voiced, “A section of this you say-” in prolonged sections its arms had expanded, a Pandora’s Box to the statement, illuminating and justifying the rubble that stained each bowl, “Aren’t we all, we are you know.” How cursed it vexed me. Why, I knew it did, it was aside those glasses; those discombobulated siblings.

My mouth had stalled, forgotten in advance; that sickly raising, those developed fears, “You all—do you suggest that more belong here, of all places,” The oars had skipped as the current took side; picking up where we could not let on.

“Suggest, why I don’t assume what I already Intel,” Its mouth pierced, the blade in retreat, drawing more then insufficient grieves, “And who are you to ask, who are you to confront? We are far unaccustomed to what sport you parley.”

By survey, to scrutinize, how the lens had schemed, puritan in the external gorge; seeking out convex delights, settlements sprayed on tucking trove. Stepping to and digging forth, what island brawl, what sheepish glade; where seasons dusks convulse, uncharted yet sought in caverns toll. It was here it wandered, produced, preceding all but comfort; here I scavenged, here I sailed, answering back from under veil, “I am as everything but you. Polar, North and South, some Civil War to never wage.” Such sentence caught, as that of a fish to the hook; dangling in some ounce of certainty. To be spiked, smoked, and devoured; what allegiance and ally had been its troth. From then I snickered, some intellect of remembrance, “Your stable, this place, desolate it seems. Yet you mimic with rush of others, the hapless, the pained.”

Castrated at the tone, it was all as disarmed, leaning backwards within a chapel of its own, of its peers; transfixed it remained, calmed not by passing but in negligence. Had it become senile, I could not declare; only it’s breath recalled, amplifying with every out and croaking through the in. Tempered I tattered at my feet, but it remained untouched, as if consciously patronizing. Then such occurred, a fresh daze as its body swindled, grinding its bones together in some acceptance, some approval. It spoke, but how can not be defined; as if out of air, out of pause, an explanation of its rooted bounty, “Dear sincerest folk, your aims are at moment; yet the dialect can not be heard,” Somehow it halted, covering its walk, looking only to myself, “What pinched childish lips they have, you see, opened both upside and downside. They seethe, they do; open for naught, nailed at the voice. The chore is far too brittle, as they are all in frail; china dolls, haggard cheeks and lanky lashes. Their sanctuary is riddled, confined; haunt to nothing, a useless feast in this starving gut.” In the wilderment it clasped at it’s palm, a shackle to it’s very strain; stunned as if the body was without it’s owner, “What a guild, what a clan, stripped of their identities, not nude but naked. Even then they stand apart, misdirected, misled. Such a group brewed so sheik, that’s the meaning of community bleak.”

‘Silent had fled the burly rasp, remained as natural, native to the spotless prize.’
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So this little piece seemed to have come from nowhere, yet it was in a way a reply to some heavy matters that were going on underneath things and still are. It seems to not be to much, and one isn't quite to ecstatic about its finish. There are those who can obtain so much in better patterns. However, the subject of this piece was derived mainly on this place and a sight of what really went on besides of the whole happy face. Whenever you join something, you're always told of the right facets. You're never shown what really happens in the shadows, and how others are really affected. We're told to believe that in truth, there is no evil, no source of a downfall. No negative influences to wash away the "Meaning" of the community. Yet even then, our humanity is a mask to the real harms that take place beneath it all. We can not tell what should be, and what shouldn't be. When it seems one joins these places, they want to strive to be the best never comprehending they have already obtained that spot.

This thing here took literally two months to write, which seems odd but only because it never felt right. It went through many adapations and still comes off sounding horrid in so many areas. Yet the plot can not really be said, except along the lines of something simple. However, even if the story is based on the image of the YC, the characters in it don't trully have any names to go with them. But, don't be mistaken, there was a lot of juice taken from two diffrent sources to make this what it has come to be. In simple terms it was laid out in the vision of learning the truth about things, what life really was all about. The one travelling to this spot notices many things that differ from "their" world. Take it in a way that their world was sweeter, it made sense, it wasn't a lie like this one was. The citizen of whom they speak to seems to be a mirror image of everyone else around them. Meaning, they copy everyones moves because they don't know how to be themselves. They are an image of what this place brings out of people, opinion wise, it all depends upon what it seen.

The first paragraphs of the piece happen to be situated on factors of more less a Philosophy outlook. They have no main plot other than to focus on a metaphorical balance of how bad things really are. More less to get their meaning in a simple term, think of it like, "Everything is not as it seems; when you come somewhere it will eventually change you. Everything changes you, things seem better at times then they appear. Take for example the actions of a knight, they murder in the name of their lord. It was honorable, and still seems to be for them even in today. Yet is a bringer of death, one who slaughters for what they feel is right. It's still immoral, still not correct. Their sword is stained with the blood of other men. Ages also see things oppisite each other, when we are younger storms are nothing more but little parts of nature. Fun things to gawk at and open your eyes to. Yet when you're older you learn how bad they really are, and how much it can really change your life." More or less the areas were written in the balance of words, showing that for every good there was a bad, even at the YC.

The rest is actually complicated and up to the reader to really define, at times the spots focus on one thing and go to another; the full outlook though is spared in the making of what the Corner really has become. It's not the same as when you first visit, things seem diffrent, simple. The more you stay though, the more you learn and the worse it becomes. It's like that everywhere though, it's a life lesson. You will understand things clearly when you finally get drawn into the picture, put into the scheme of things. One wanted to release this in a way for Pawy, there is some heavy hitting areas in there for her; yet thats all an issue of deciding what is what and where it really is. One as well hopes that things go quite alright through this, and one does apologize for the horrid spots that seem to focus their heads throughout it at times.