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(
[sid] => 134395
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Nomia
[time] => 2007-05-16 08:22:12
[hometext] => A poem about genome splicing and your daily slice of Nirvana.
[bodytext] => Cordavius: Sleeping inside a Chess-pot terrace marked with trees, the bees draw nigh their swords in stronghold scaffle, swift presume battle against my throatful sigh. While I, Cordavius, look over; intact, I see Feng Shui, the arrogant traps holding their infant M16s with deadpanned masks that can’t even clasp my presence on the cinderblock floor. “These gritters don’t know what’s in store.” Rubbish, filthy rain-drenched clothes with batches of patches: The Hobo code. For days, I’ve bathed in their alleyway heavens and traveled with carts, yet lo and behold! I am not born of trash nor poor expectations. Instead, I am a man of infinite jests: An actor, a pauper, a protesting parrot and scout against these mock-human pests. Under these glazed and undreamt eyes lies dormant a secret silhouette; passwords, people, much information for these persistent evil gents. Marked with trouble and intimate gray, a sliding banner reveals dissent among the cousin-land fills with machines who offer service to the penitent. These gents are hustling technology freaks who work to fix the human genome: To assimilate human evolution and make whole, like the arenas of Rome emotional, physical, mental designs, cognitive, spatial, vocal, social intricacies of the sapient mind. For Christ-to them-christened belief among his people; that was his flaw compared to molding and making true all rights, all thoughts, all preset laws with scientific revolutions: “Made whole for us and united for all.” The choice, with us, to them is imperfect insoluble acts of mistakenly kind. For man with two is worse than one while wrong will be made, whether thee or thine. Now I, Cordavius, agile and free shall take to Fate’s windy hands and scanter fast in quiet approach; to make solutions. These evil men will not grasp nor comprehend! Narr: Gustling autumn’s auburn breeze shown light in light upon night’s wake. Cordavius, who Hamlet knew well, in his patch-quilt rags smelling of bourbon beauty, raw-dawed dimly with no crunch from his heels to Doorville; gun population exceeding 50 to 5 ration, a dangerous place to be. He entered non-amishly, yet a rock lay in his way; an eye scanner glaring its red searchlights in his own. Cordavius: A copier of sight? Alas I’m not afraid of such forward tactics on my resolve. A clip, snap, snip in wire cutter sense will make this boulder kindly revolve. Narr: With professional articulence, all wires were severed and cords were tied while a birth rang free from the audio; alerting all who remained in silent concentration with their carbine babies resting on safety. They sprang to life, their Sept. issues included, clicked to semi-auto while ending on auto: A spray of cries. These fathers were ready to defend their suburbia with justified force. Fractional golden moons laid in pillow clouds while Cordavius, a fine jester, crawled deeply inside the building’s ventilated nostrils, checking each opening for an opening. Cordavius: The greatest ways to infiltrate are not brute force nor persuasion, but, instead, to vanish among all quarrels and reach their base; a true evasion. It only takes a luring bait to cast these fish out from end so when a menacing shark sneaks around, the won’t be there to defend their poison-ers, their prisoners; all that are prototype made so, easy and pleasy, I can dismantle all and avenge the betrayed. Yet, before such intrusive quibbles be brought to a sickly airy life, hastings are due for the next path round so, off now I go to reach new strife! Narr: Away Cordavius went: a thump, thump, thump of his knees getting faster and yet even faster, while his rain boots leaked yester-waters and denim pants caressed all steel underneath. Groundwork was easy: a fork 4 meters away will dip into the Office suites at the right and into the bio chemical labs at left. First, a little obstacle. Cordavius: Easily, these blades turn lifeless, yet, by my time, they will stop, only for those who know clearance and have all basic training from Ops. Narr: After a long minute, the air conditioning stopped while the vent fan slowly came to a halt, ending in mite dung. When a protest becomes an insane obsession, even these times for air become valuable. It was smooth for Cordavius; his hands reached between two of the fan blades and applied pressure that forced his body though this way made opening. After a little struggle in dust mite central, he moved on to the upcoming fork. ----------------------------------------- An actor can always make an emotion or trick you into believing the opposite sides of a quarter. Just a week before the day, Cordavius played as the grinning repairman. It was all technical; sliding barricades inserted themselves into the building’s column-work, a coin fountain stole a person’s pocket change as they walked by, the low clicks of the receptionist’s typing (at least 70 RPM), the announcements giving a heads up on new products and research development; yes =, all technical and no flaws in the structure. No pinpricks of any kind to use in court as liable evidence for changes under: “Crimes against humanity.” It was 2020 and, boy, was it bright and sunny in this land of milk and honey. No one wore glasses here since eye problems were solved. It was easy for UTEC, the most leading operator in progressive homespun evolution; an inexpensive operation that involved not going under the knife but undertaking scans from AI coordinated machines that then determined a dosage of Hydromoxolene for the treated persons. Hydromoxolene, a cell regenerative, causes replenishment in a specific part of the body, obviously, it was the eyes. Anyone can notice in the bright whites of the receptionist’s eyes and her stainless tooth smile while asking: “How may I help you?” Cordavius: “’ello there’ ! I needs to gits meh’ knickers up to the’ air duct stations. They called in on eh’ problem wit’ the heater? Narr: As usual, like the snake-in-the-grass he pertained to, Cordavius strolled in drunkard fashion. This time, an Irish repairman from the lower sector: One would guess Cloverbrook due to its high crime rate, lenient drinking laws and its high population of Europeans, specifically Western Europeans. Of course, Cordavius might have been a Scott o-Brien or a Conan o’ Connor, it didn’t matter as long as the actor played his part accordingly. He was, of course, a chameleon among races or cultures, since no two of his getups looked alike. Now as he lumbered on with his equipment in hand, non would come to mind. In the 10s of 2000, horrible things went to mind. About everyone agreed with UTCE’s research yet some formed groups against their experiments. In Vladmir’s hospital center, there were reported cases of troubles ranging form bad to extremely grim. A lady from Middle suffering form an extreme case of cataracts to the point where she drove blindly into an EV or electrical unit; a man who has permanent UV scars on his corneas, making it impossible to define things clearly and off-helter his spatial processes, making him commit accidental suicide while believing he was looking down from a bridge; two cases of people’s eyes bursting from their sockets; yes, many cases like these spread rumors of possible medical terrorism taking place. Of course, these cases were overlooked by all sheep in the sheperd’s flock, except for the black one and the snakes near the end of the pasture. The black sheep was Dick Truman, a once known researcher in UTEC who changed his name to Samuel Davis after becoming the leader of H.E.R.E.S.Y., an anti-homo-sapien development group who used radical acts as their main ploy. All of the snakes were afraid of this black sheep, he was once one of the but turned against after much desocialization going on within the labs. He was not only smart but revealed much information regarding UTEC’s development and had insight to their “crimes against humanity” yet these people knew it wouldn’t be enough evidence to take down the whole facility. Cordavius arrived at an elevator after walking for approx. 3 minutes down hallway after hallway of offices. His job was nowhere near this place, he was to go underground into the basement floors in order to find the vent station. But first things first, he clicked the most bottom floor. Slowly, the number went down from one to B1, there was no other persons in here besides Cordavius but he kept his stance; knowing that there were secret cameras watching from the elevator button. The elevator doors were thick, hard steel. The floor, like the hallway, was blue marble. For a research center so big and constructed carefully, it sure had a slow elevator. By the time Cordavius got down to B4, it was 5 past 10:00 am, the opposide can be said about his vent travels, his watch read 20:05 and he was closing in on the labs. Cordavius: As I think how in my allegoral thoughts, I am the bug crawling in the nostrils of their body. It won’t take but a few more crawls through mucus and hard boogers before I find the brain, and from there I will poison it. It won’t be slow, but it will not be triggered until I am gone, the poison will spread rapidly and kill the entire body. This is my mission and failure to cease their bodily functions is not an option. Narr: Cordavius crawled past the first security clearance, then the second, the third and finally the last. The floor changed from blue marble to white tiles, just like the floor when he left the elevator at ten o’ five AM. ----------------------------------------- At this early interval, he walked past two storage skies leading to the janitor’s supplies and ended his trot about 14 meters away in front of a vending machine. He snickered at the selections, with most being supplemental stimulants depending upon the overuse of the endocrine system. Cordavius: Aye, for such eh fancy place they have such novelty drinks, not like at home. Narr: As he inspected closer on this particular vendor, a man wearing a yellow lab coat passed by until he paused and turned back saying: Scientist: Those stone cold concentrations can turn a man flat-brook. Cordavius: Aye, flat brook indeed. Not only in the lousy of drink but lousy in face, in thought and in pants. Narr: He turned back and walked up to the front; whistling an old tune from the transitional century. Cordavius, the king’s joker, ambled ever so slightly through the somber halls; white laced with crumble wall-ways above a black-marbled floor buffed for maximum luster. At the end of the Sec. C hallway, he turned right down a long chamber with a service elevator down the latter path. Inside this chamber contained eleven doors, with five juxtaposed on either side of the east and west walls with the last situated to the front. This fine jester took the third door left. On its front, a plague shined brilliantly dry with the message (Ventilation Assembly) At this point, in the dwellings of the future, his poor self fell from the ceiling onto the steel grating of the chamber with 11 doors. He grunted as sharp pain crawled up his back into his neck. He caressed forcefully on his left side while he stared at his next objective; the eleventh door; it would lead to the research labs but stop first at a security desk, possibly protected by three or four guards with m16 maturation. He rummaged through his poverty stricken coat until he came upon love in three ears: A doctor’s headset, as Cordavius would name it, shined a small metallic glare in his face from the chamber’s giant light panel. He put the left plug in his corresponding ear as did the same with the other and checked if it work by lightly tapping the third ear; on which he did, made a loud boom audible though them causing Cordavius to shun. Cordavius: Eh, to use not your own ears but artificial incentives makes our bearings their black to our white-knuckled clenches; Yes, for such set problems, they spring alive in dark; testing supplies, mutations compared to organic love form the heart. Narr: Cordavius, after shaking his head in grimace set aside his disgusted feelings and placed the new ear on the eleventh door of the odd chamber, while his past self trudged and nic-nacked down the VA corridors. Instead of being a beauty with marble floors, this was a barren almost-cramped path with a carpeted floor, the first of its kind in this building according to his shining hazel eyes. Cordavius: My, my they must ave’ run out of Emerald’s Shire when building this mite-mat. Reminds me of Seamus and his bargain bin, always full of junk and mites. Them isn’t anything pre- Narr: He stopped in mid sentence when his emerald gaze reflected from the light of the room the machine he was to manipulate under the knife. It was massive: Its computer terminal sat in idle at a hard oak desk in the center, behind it were giant vent tubes bending into a pivot and exiting into the main lines (The mainlines started from this room and connect to first the labs then the offices, then reception room, etc. ) Wind turrets were stationed opposite on the first half of the VA, blowing air at least 40 miles an hour. This air, mixed with the free-on, would exit out the vents and make the temperature just right for all the specific rooms, whether it be room temperature, 35 degrees Fahrenheit for food and in the negatives for the incubators and studies; very structured indeed. Cordavius rim-dimmed to the terminal; a quick yet walking pace. He pulled a keycard from his left inside pocked of his beer drenched uniform and sliced it through the terminal’s card slot. He sneezed from the ethanol stench covering his self. Cordavius: As I say, in tempest tongue, the septum sanity of my end-clauses can equally display sacrifice. For liquid abrasions are knives to my senses yet to make salvation I must be complete, to fire a dire affiliation to their wounds. Yet such kind blood cannot be spilt without love. For the price of fair machines or wively strikes cannot denote, incisively, their wisdom and with such archaic terms like love and emotion can only be seen through elder’s eyes,; through children’s’ play; through the Dark ages and jousts with Mahomet. Let it be shown to incubators, medicines, supplements, mutations and side-effects their ugly love: To be made as a care but to make grotesque as a weapon among the natural. Narr: Cordavius quickened his pace on the terminal’s keyboard, entering his specially made password with username encryption: his username “thaed” while his password, “evila”. While he worked, 265 pounds of pressure exerted per minute through 53 different ventilation connects excluding the Scalar basement level. (B5, only Upper personal have access down there.) He was now in the ventilation commands, while his future self heard trudging footsteps fading off with a door closing with a low impact slam. Quickly, he scarabed the door open, making no sound whatsoever, and entered on silent feels. The new room revealed suspicion right from Cordavius’s glance to the left. The security room had tight turrets on all four corners while on the left, hung a door wide open and within the room beyond, an incubator storage unit. Cordavius: Ah, for a sin so foul, the sloth comes to free me from my difficulties of enmassing a shooting spree. Narr: He swiftly crossed the room, past its polished furniture, the water hamper and the Visor screens, entering into the fray of bottled eggs from surrogate mothers, marked labels showing different graded algorithms based on the number of chromosomes, molecules and secretion. They were all wrapped in cellophane with strong caps placed on top. Serial numbers with case and type embroidered their marks; these were, of course, not infants anymore but wholesome fetuses to be used for extreme molecular testing. From Cordavius’s files, these babies, who were donated voluntarily were being used not for medical research but manipulative gene exploration: To search for controlling agents inside the DNA in order to create massive control over citizens of the future. Cordavius could only imagine horrible outcomes from it: People arguing not with their minds but their genetic makeup, making decisions based upon scientific manipulation, it disgusted him so, to the point of nauseam. Cordavius: To God‘s vast hands be sewed upon the earth punishment to wicked vice among his flocks of sheep. He removed from his inside poor pocket a round religious relic of wrath, a mechanical device with a blinking red light, and stuck it to the center of the incubation racks, arming it by pressing the red blinking button, setting it to green; ready for the switch. He inspected in the dark dim room a door straight ahead. Using his doctoral ears, he heard no footsteps on the other side; no sounds, only the steady low hum of the air conditioning and the swill of sterilization: lemon with ammonia. All was quiet, a good sign for Cordavius who wanted a quick and painless accomplishment. He joggled the door handle with his hobo hands, discovering it locked. Cordavius: To make clicks in internal thought, not such doors can stop such a man. For, this lock was made to protect and this still pick, in lustful vigilance, will combine to form a love in love, to love only with the want to open. Narr: Cordavius worked on this lock in utter concentration, being quick, skilled and elite. It opened easily after the third try. As he started through his new path, his past self was accessing the air conditioning start-up sequence times. He changed the schedule time for the east sector to 20:01. The first part was ready. He then took out from his uniform a different wrathful relic. It was silver with a small screen, square shape with small buttons on the sides, almost like an old child’s game controller. Except, this controller was used not for games, accessing inner programs, to modify the more secure and intimate pathway, and wham holds in the system. Cordavius connected this device to the inner slot on the terminal’s right, once entered, the screen changed. Different programs were being run. One was used to make the security system ignore the incoming programs so none of UTEC would know about the scheduled break-in, another was run to intercept programs that would go against the modified inner processors and another made the terminal hid the changed processes upon login. Cordavius was prepared alight, no one from HQ would let him get by without the standard issue of infiltration. Finally, on the big screen, he accessed the inner programs. Door locks, clocks, alarms, he could change the times of all, reprogram the gun turrets outside to shoot at only UTEC workers at a certain time by entering in the commands. He could make the alarm blare off at lunchtime, a false alarm for those gritters when they’re eating away at their nutrients, only concerned with making all God instead of helping the sick. Yes, he could do many things like this and they wouldn’t know at all. He first opened the schedule for door locks and waited while it loaded the whole area schematics. Cordavius: Aye, such a simple oddjob requires so much to make live, to shine in the powerful greenlands of the pastures and stare into the face of Almighty and make confusion to sin. Like sin dug deep in potato fields an’ ridin’ the carts to the markets for whole; a joy within job with job. Yet, to fight worthy for the grudie pools and helpless damsel angels beyond the grasslands, is in eyes to the earth Mother. So, now let doors unopened be made opened, locks which are powerful be unlocked and screams of alert be cast when Father Time ticks his way towards the right moments. He will stay, as all who say among his quarrels, among eroding rocks; to swallow our world whole. Narr: After waiting for the estimated time of three minutes thirty four seconds, Cordavius made a schedule time for lab office 3ab at the late shift time to be unlocked for a routine maintenance check and cleaning. He then mixed on to the security cameras which his future self closed in on the lab offices. He snuck, like a busy crawling, to the final door that would reach where development was taking place. He knew what he would see, testtubes, medicines, doctor’s tables, the Grand Wazoo and with the ancient relic he had in his coat, he would destroy it and everything else in this carnival of calamity. He was ready to face anything that tried to come out of the synthetic office ways and try to switch the alarm on, he would use another archaic weapon, a weapon that was killed off after the 2011 Gun Banishment Law, he had one with him. It was an old Glock 9mm handgun with a modified barrel for piercing rounds for better kills. Compared to the M16s, it was more powerful. He readied it in his left hand, preparing himself to kick the door down. Cordavius: If I were to die and make myself a martyr, I would go happy. Narr: WHAM! The door collided with a 12 inch steel tipped boot and broke open, almost falling off its hinges. Inside was a reception desk with no one in it, a whole rove of lab cubicles with people looking from them in surprise and no guards. Perfect, casualties were always so perfect in the evening. A man named Trevor stared at the pistol in Cordavius’s grip, knowing that the beast would feast on the- a bullet went through Trevor’s left hemisphere and out the back creating an exit wound the size of an orange. Gore plastered on his office cubicle window, mixed of a medly of pale purple sponge, skull and blood. His body fell limp onto the ground, which the other worker drones screamed, many, it was the first time they saw a corpse, let alone an ancient handgun. The past would begin battle with the present now. Cordavius: You all, the unspoken, are too old for conceptual sequence. I’m here now, the modern angel to vanquish all to where hence they came to be created, deflated and abated and ravished their thoughts, now be gone, tainted fools! Narr: He shot his time-rusted piece, this time, a man named Tom, a Frenchie with a Beatle’s crush, became the next victim for change. He stood upright to a vending machine near the alarm to Cordavius’s left, except the man didn’t seem to be a worry-wart, even when being kissed by the sweet lips of mortem. He wore a different old relic that wasn’t dangerous but annoying to the other lab worker bees in here, a headset and CD player. That old age technology, of course, was discontinued after newer improved methods of listening to music were made, even for the deaf. But, this man named Tom still listened with the past; right now he was stuck on O-Bla-Di O-Bla-Da. As they say, according to Tom, La-la-la life goes on. Tom fell to the floor in a slumped fashion, his back opened up like a rose bud which made a smear on the vending machine when he fell into his death seat. It hit circled near his heart enough to blow it and possibly a lung out of his body with the force of a 100 MPH speeding car. The next victim was more refined yet still an unwanted woman. She was an abused and strayed out on the porch. He nails were cut down to the point of bleeding and her face still engraved the spitting mark of a hand. Yes, she was pained alright, pained by the violence of men and hated them so, for she, herself experienced such lethal and vile pain when her husband was still around. That, of course, changed when she slaughtered the pig stomach to stomach while a carton of milk still dripped its white heaven down her kitchen table. She was the incomplete angel of what was to survive and what was guilty to live; made to love the pain of others by the Oriacon. But, she was now no longer dead by the nail clippers of here abused years nor was she walking on the silver coated hills of emergence any longer. Instead, a bullet battered her brief right in the guts, gutting her good with her back vomiting chunks of intestine at the back wall near here lab where she was once working quietly on a way to sterilize a man without having him know… She screamed in pain while others fell around her. A once promising doctor who turned to science after being fired for attempted rape from his dispassionate love with the secretary in the front office. Instead of tracing hearts with Cupid’s arrow, the arrow went back into him, right into the heart; turning it into stew and exiting out the back where his product patient lay silently. An old man who once spoke of the Thorn Beauties and An Frontagé, became sourpussed by a bullet to his cranium, splitting his once full head of language and acts into an empty, alien like image of eyes folding on themselves and a head collapsing into the wall near the water bowl. A man who was once in a car accident, who made dribble about his upholstery growing old and being ripped apart, received a bullet to the kidneys with the exit wound blowing chunks of gut fat through his backside; he died slowly and painfully, like the car accident. Another car accident victim was hit in his stomach, except he had no guts to spew, instead, he fell and bled, bled, bled the flowing rivers down the blue carpeting which turned to royal purple. He lost his girlfriend to his sexually influenced fun. Now, there was no more fun, especially when lying in a cold wide tomb bleeding sweet fruit punch down the line. Another man, who once walked the night with insomnia on the mind, now slept quietly and soundlessly in sleep, this, to him, was a relief like not other. All of these people had little in common but were all connected to the present from the past, with the same hand that wrote down their names and descriptions, another hand would right down their names and descriptions on a post-mortem sheet. The flurry of bullets from Cordavius went on, with him sometimes stopping his onslaught to load another round of death- metal. People, left and right, fell or slumped to the ground, some had their arms blown off and others were live bait that caught the bullet right between the teeth. Of course, their face wouldn’t show their surprise since they didn’t have faces after that. It took Cordavius approx. four minutes to kill all of those lab workers, with the final one standing in the corner. It was the only worker that tried to beg for mercy. He was a pleasantly plump man wearing jeans, a logo-less T-shirt and an old beat-up denim jacket. He wore crooked glasses on his scared-to-death face, which still looked young when compared to all these other gritters. He looked scared and possibly ***** his pants from the shock. But, Cordavius didn’t show mercy, he aimed his ancient beast that wants to feast on that kid’s temple and blew him straight to a new idea, being fully dead with no head to back it up. Cordavius smirked a little and starting setting up the fireworks display, making sure that all walls were covered with sprinklers and roman candle delight. Cordavius moved through a door to the upper most left of the room, where the biggest lab center was. No one was in here, good to him, of course. He mounted several prize winning trophies on the walls, all of them were blinking green, ready and armed to explode the winners with excitement. After getting finished with the décor, Cordavius went back through the funhouse, past the lab offices, past the blood stained walls and past the chamber of eleven doors. Now, he went backwards to where the elevator was while his past self became finished at the driver’s seat of fate. ----------------------------------------- Past Cordavius put the terminal back on idle and headed back to the elevator at the slow pace, keeping his act all intact. Cordavius: Aye, now that heater’s will be fixéd and none of these scab’lls complain about the inner works. Narr: He went back past the concentration vendor to the elevators where the elevator was. While dragging his equipment inside, he pressed the button for the first floor, as did his future self. He went past the blue marble hallway, the water tubs and back to where the reception desk once lay and found himself greeted by guards, guards and more guards, holding their babies in had to shoot out their lethal acid at Cordavius’s body. One screamed to him: “Stop, criminal, your days of dismantling revolution are long gone!” Cordavius: Aye, that’s what you think, laddie! Narr: The gun turrets, instead of aiming at Cordavius, shot at the guards, all of them fleeing from the bullets. Some were launched from the building into the glass entrance and others were pounded into the windows. While they were being shot, Cordavius, took a secret way behind the receptionist desk out to the front of the building. He ran, with his mission done, to a vehicle parked near some bushes at the back end of the road near the UTEC building. He was done, finished, finito and he was happy. As he started up the car, he took a pack of chewing gum out of the dashboard and took a piece out for chewing. Cordavius: Those gritters don’t know what in store for them, for now I control their fate with just a press from a button, and with this button, they’ll experience the greatest limbo on the face of the earth, to die without frailty and wings singed beneath their beating hearts, like a poet sacrificed to the Gods of Diction, Rhyme, Meter and Emotional Setback. Narr: What those guards didn’t know about was the final touches his past self gave, who programmed the gun turrets to become active to all UTEC employees at that night. Now, his past self, the Irish repairman, walked out of the building with his equipment ready to be taken back to HQ and his future self, the hobo and Jester, Yorwick, drove into the moonlight’s horizon, while holding a detonator in his hand, which he pressed. And, in that glorious moment, UTEC became a nominal identity, only known by name and not by reality. The age of living under dependent rule would soon end and the age of independence would come back around, to make whole of the world and of all who roamed free in its binding contracting grasp. THE END [comments] => 0 [counter] => 180 [topic] => 31 [informant] => skyhawk432 [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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