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Escaping the Quaking Priapus of Prince Uday
by James Welsch

A Response from Corey Williams


Escaping the Quaking Priapus of Prince Uday

* After Jon Lee Anderson's articles for The New Yorker (March 30th, April 7th, & April 14th, 2003) & William Blake's
Visions of the Daughters of Albion.

Silent, the Logos
suffers the ravages of
LOGOMACHIA.
-Elf S. Raymond

I.
My Imagination was brimming, & my
fingers were itching in lust without a
pencil, that the buzz of the Al Rashid
Lobby seem'd no more Withoutside my
Mind than the Reflection of it seem'd
Within. Human Shields, Reporters &
Reality Television Stars (of the Real &
Syndicated Variety) must have been
soaring from Telephone to Internet Cafe,
checking in & out at Androidic
Frequencies, but they serv'd neither as
impediments to my Body nor Soul as I
floated from the Glass Revolving Doors,
across the Mosaic of George II, to the
Great Glass Elevator. The Great Glass
Doors eloquently seal'd, & the
Oerteeming Lobby was a Twofold Colony
of Rebounding Bedlam seen through the
Opaque Elevator, receding from my
Percepts as I ascended towards the Inner
Atmosphere of my Suite. I avoided the
Railing as I proceeded from the Lift,
fearing Gravity & other Vertiginous
Emotions, eventually closing up my
Vision into Two Narrow Orbs to prevent All
of my Senses from losing their Spiring
Height, & exhaled into my Rented
Chambers, which serv'd as a Temporary
Office for my Business in the City.

I perceiv'd my Desk approaching as I
approach'd it, & reunited my Hands with
Quill & Inkpot: The Letter to be composed
had no Address as yet, aside from
'Cicelia Murra', & I became increasing
aware that no Faculties of the Imagination
could invent one, isolated as they were in
this Hotel Suite; & even if her Address
could be leak'd from the Exterior, the
Letter surely would never make it into her
Possession in any Form I could send it
in. Even if the Ink remain'd as I quill'd it, &
the Paper was transported from my
Location unto her Undisclosed One, this
Ink would transmute betwixt my Excretion
& her Ingestion. Ink's funny like that. I
scrawl'd out my humble communication
anyway, vaguely hoping the Audience
would emerge with the aid of the Artwork.

My Dearest Princess.
Where the Hell are you. If you receive this
intercourse, kindly indicate your Physical
Habitation on the Withoutside of the
Envelope, so that it may be properly
deliver'd. I have resided in the City for
several months, with few leads as to your
whereabouts, & although you feel closer
than ever, & your Corporeal Inspiration
has moved me as far as to compose this
Letter, Exterior Events are evidently
escalating & I fear Architectural
Disintegration before you are Bodily
Located, 'rescued', & transported from
the Harms of the City. Arise! & make your
self Palpable to my Senses, or at least
begin to 'drop hints' so at least your
Identity may be decoded piecemeal. By
God, it gets Hot & Sandier & I premeditate
the Moment of Desire -

Before the Completion of the Sentence &
the Addition of my Autograph, I open'd my
eyes & noticed my Driver, Sabah, in a
state of quasi-repose on the Couch. My
Recognition of him came only a second
after a Low Grunt of Confusion, which
transform'd his Soporific Status to one of
Agitated Vigilance.

"You need a haircut, sir," he began,
reaching for a Warm Pistachio. "You're
beginning to look more like a Terrorist or
a Shield than an Eye posing as a Mouth.
& we should alter Hotels A.S.A.P.; there
are rumors that the Al Rashid might be a
Prime Target of the Campaign."

I said: "But why should a Lodge flowing
full of Mouths be at risk of disintegration,
Sabah."

"There's Information that the King holds
his Mistress, Rosamund, in an
Underground Bunker beneath this Hotel,"
Sabah choked on the Crimson Covering
of the Nut. "It might be connected to the
Main Palace Complex by way of a Bower.
The whole Subway of the City is a
Labyrinth of Passages & Portals: a Dump
above may be a Dome below, & a Castle
could be a Hell. There's a Barber off of
Abu Nawas in the Cover'd Market who's
been cutting my Beard for Thirty Years, &
if he can style my Black he can trim your
Blonde."

I felt my self rise from the Desk & walk to
the Window, where fathoms below I could
make out Professors on Bicycles &
Donkeys leisurely enjoying the Manicured
Green of Zawra Park. "The Reality is
Madness out there. I've been Fighting for
no Revelation of Truth all day, & I need a
Wink before I can take the City again.
Does your Barber work after Dark."

"Exclusively," he replied & drifted back
into the Ugly Ashen Couch Cushions. I moved
my Bed away from the Balcony Sliding
Doors, where the Great Panes of Glass
had been taped in Cross-like Patterns,
ornamenting the Afternoon Sun Rays as
they spread across the Hotel Carpet.
I attempted to Meditate on the distant
Street Noises until they were but Items I
was creating Inside my self which could
be easily transform'd to Silence, & failing,
would be damn'd if I could find any
Earplugs. Finally dreaming, it seem'd as
if a Woman was Stereotypically Rising on
a Sea of Clouds, her Naked Purity
glimmering in the Indiffuse Sunshine.
She rose her Arm & from her Idealized
Body could have been Any Beauty, her
Bosom hovering as if unaffected by
Gravity; but as soon as I began to focus
on her Face, on her Kindly Piercing Brown
Eyes, the Mist which obscur'd her Loins
receded, & I knew her to be the One I
sought and Only. I whisper'd her Fluxile
Name, seeking to steer the Winds so to
push me Westward in her direction. Her
Countenance smiling, gleaming from my
Effort, responded in an Oddly Masculine
Inflection: "The Nightlife beginneth: Cut
thy Golden Locks, Sandy -"

"What," I stirr'd.

"It's brillig;" my Driver gently announc'd
into the Window: "see the Sunshine
vanish towards Jordan & the City start to
unwind. I've call'd our Car."

"Cheers, Sabah." I arose & donn'd an
Evening Jacket, & slipp'd my Incomplete
Letter into the Cabinet Drawer's Holy
Book. We descended to the Lobby as a
Porter enter'd the Elevator with a Typically
Beautiful Woman's Suitcase & its Owner.
I noted her Muscovite Aura thinly
conceal'd by Germanic Fashion, her
Peaceful Strength, & her Futuristic Fear.
She reminded me instantly of the Paradox
that Immorality was Frequently thought
the Means to a Moral End, but I only just
caught that from her Babylonian Tresses
as the Doors camouflaged her Cochineal
Dress with their Opacity. Our Car was
waiting.

Sabah pull'd out from the Al Rashid onto
Beaumont & turn'd right at the Fourteenth
of July Street. The Ominous Class of the
Palace Complex cast a Rich Gloom onto
this Brassy District, making it the Nicest
to Behold & Least Nice to Visit. Some of
this Despotic Tension dissipated as the
City Proper enter'd around our
Automobile, where Children danc'd in
Fountains outside of Fish Markets. Men
sat at Small Tables on the Walks in front
of Cafés & play'd at Dominoes, whilst
cues accumulated alongside Art
Galleries & Moving Picture Theaters
promising Films by Jean Luc Godard or
Fluff with Flirtatious Teenagers. It All was
a Much Better View through the Car
Window as Sabah cruis'd down the
Broad Street & onto Abu Nawas.

"If there's no Appointment with your
Barber, could we seize a Cup of Tea
before my Cut," I implor'd, still wiping at
the Sleep Pus from my Eyelids.

He replied: "Karim takes no
Appointments, anyways," & park'd the Car
in a Narrow Alley off the Corn Market.
"There is a Chaikhana across from his
Shop which my Grandfather use'd to take
me to erst I had a Beard to trim."

The Waiter serv'd us a Sweet Black Tea
in Little Cups & Saucers which could
have tasted like an Earthly Reflection of
Ambrosia, but neither of us having tasted
Ambrosia, settled that it simply was a
Very Sweet Earthly Pleasure. There was a
Shaved Bald Man with two Rifles tattoo'd
in a Cross on the Rear of his Head,
apparently a Piece of Artwork Exclusively
for Us unless he carried Two Mirrors. He
was alone & strode purposefully towards
our Table, inviting himself to Tea. He
carried a Book which I had not read.

"Have you read this Book, friend," he
ask'd.

"No," I responded, as the Sweet Tea
began to awaken the Cells of my Brain.

"Pat Dillon; I've only just arrived here as
most are preparing to leave."

I said: "Is Pat Dillon your Name or the
Book's Author, or both."

"I am the Author only to the extent that I
am the Involv'd Audience. You say you've
not read it. You must have such
Inadequate Knowledge of Death."

"Why have you arrived while Most Others
are Leaving," I studied his Fierce Black
Gaze: There was something Immature
about his Passion.

He growl'd: "Oh, the Usual: Fondness of
Danger, Fascination with Destruction,
Living each Moment as your Last." He
call'd to the Chaikhana's Gaston &
order'd a Turkish Coffee. "I'm an Eye with
a Moving Camera. I Love Death, don't you.
Isn't that why you're here."

"I'm an Eye too," I disclos'd, "disguis'd as
a Mouth. But my Objectives are to flee
Mortality before it Falls Bloodless from the
Sky. I'm only here as long as I stay alive."

"What kind of Dump is this, hey. It's
Awesome how Business-as-Usual this
City still is. Kebabs, Motorbikes,
Pornography. Its Occupants will hang on
to Pleasure & Leisure up to the Deadline.
Even the Mukhabarat seem more
Interested in Cameron Diaz than they do
in Rooting out the Enemies of the King."

My Bowels fluctuated: "Where do you
suppose they keep the Uncover'd
Enemies."

Dillon laugh'd. "There are many kinds of
Enemies. The Aid of the Competition I'm
sure is Tortur'd for Information &
Eliminated. But you can Never Fully
Eliminate the Negations, except in a New
Paradise. For the Other Enemies: Even in
Eden there are Conflicts, of course, so
Opposites are Nurs'd & Fed with Holy
Wine."

"What on Earth."

He clarify'd: "They Pow the Men & Seduce
the Women. If Royalty truly are Greater
Individual Beings, their Female
Counterparts need not be Singlefold. To
weld with the Adversary might Ascend
your Imaginative Faculties towards
Salvation. Of course, I don't believe that
Crap. I say Kill the Women & Convert the
Convertible; it'd be a better tactic. What
use is Sex or Art in belligerent twilights.
Fancying Larks or Thyme in the Wintry
Deep harbors Cabin Fever. The Only way
Out is In. Why do you look so Interested."

I stop'd looking Interested & return'd to a
Mouthic Detachment: "Well, I'll take the
High Road & I'll get to Boston before you."

"My Road ain't drown'd in Oceanic
Chaosity."

"Meantime, It was nice to Cross Paths
with you."

"Same here, Cowboy. But the Night is
Young. You can't be off to Sleep yet:
That's why there's Day in the Desert."

"I'm afraid it might be easier to slip
through the Customs Sieve if I've cut my
Hair," I rose from the Table. "& I still
entertain Vain Delusions of Escaping
before the Campaign."

Dillon stood as a Washingtonian Obelisk
to Grasp my Hand Extended in Parting.
"Bit late for that, but God Speed."

Sabah return'd from the Interior & led me
unto the Market, leaving my new Bald
Friend Solitary with his Hermaphroditic
Coffee of Death. As far as my Vision
permitted, Headless Kine & Swines
paggled from the Covering Canopy & the
Ether was Aloft with the Odors of Decay. I
bent my Nostrils to the Ground to
Minimize the Sensations, & in doing so
my Soul became slightly more detach'd
from the City & its Pensive Vapors. I could
remember the Princess somewhere in
my Retrospection, but as I increas'd that
Nostalgia, it lesson'd what Percentage of
her was to be Expell'd from her Sisters &
Sons of the Market. My Frontal Lobe rear'd
its Gelding Gams & Swift Kick'd me in my
Manhood, snapping me from my
Masturbatory Reminiscence, Expanding
my Organs once more to breathe the
Infinite Cyclic Gases of Rotting Tripe. I
was dizzy with Meatborn Pleasures as
Sabah push'd me past the Red & White
Spiraling Logo & into a Noisy Shop
carpeted with the Outcast Dust of Many
Noble Summits.

Karim immediately wouldn't take me: "I'm
no Good with Long Hair, I reckon. Sajida
should be back in a Few Moments, &
she's more Experienced to that Length."

The Barber extended his Blade to my
Driver's Beard, & I perceiv'd them
descend to a Different Realm, as his
lessoning Facial Hair took years from his
Façade. A Moment was either a Minute or
Many, & a Short Woman clad Head to Toe
in a Solemn Burka rent the Dark Curtains
from the Back. Sajida hid all her Body &
Face behind a Black Veil, which
extenuated the Wiling Power of her
Narrow Eyes, which stared attentive
through the Mirror in front as her gloved
hands tied me to the Swiveling Chair.

She spoke Softly but it rung from Edge to
Edge: "Unfortunately, a Local Anesthetic
has no Authority over Abscess Galls." I
noticeably started, & her Veil shifted at the
Brink, revealing her Terrifying
Announcement with a Loosening Grin. I
had no control over my Language when
responding to her Joke: "Ha."

My Arms lock'd immobile; command of
my appearance reallocated to this
Female & her Machete. What once was
Flowing from my Crest so easily became
Dust on the Tiles, & with each Falling
Lock, a Pulsation of my Heart became
less bellicose as it was Oerwhelm'd with
Liberating Inspiration. As I caught her
Eyes in the Looking-Glass, I was able to
Amplify her Face from the Crack, creating
a Nose & Mouth & Tongue, giving each
Atom of Chameleonic Air a Local
Habitation & a Name. As her Razor
trimm'd the Bristles of my Neck, I
recreated my Barber as a Woman, the
Blackness of her Burka becoming the
Nighty Stars swelling about her inflaming
Flesh. Her Hair floated unfetter'd from the
Veneer, & her Face became Ten Faces;
Her Body soon Ten Thousand Bodies, &
her Bosom expanded into the Myriad of
Humanity. I arose from the Chair, no
longer within its Helical Shackles, &
Penetrated the Night I had molded from
the Burka's Clay.

I yank'd my Driver unto the High Street,
his Countenance Smooth as Hebe's
Unrazor'd Lips, & we Measured the
Scene. Electric Radios pledg'd Echoless
Rag-times, cascading across the Tigris
to the Threatening Presidential Palace.
The King's Mosque had no Regime in
these Woods of Sadoun Street, & the
Lizardy Masonic Dome of the Queen's
College stood as Dead Stone of Night to
the Bacchic Revelry beneath. I winked &
Ten Pubs open'd to my Slender Orbs,
Vine-clad Satyrs beckoning us to their
Effeminizing Rituals. Sabah & I sledded
down the Stairs to the Lower Floorstate of
one such Establishment, & Comus
greeted us with Goblets of Arrack & Gulf
Shrimp from the Charcoal Grills.

"Welcome to thy Youth, Sandy," he Roar'd,
as fourteen Bears spread their faerie
wings to the Music.

"Is this Liquid sound," I sang. "I don't want
to awake to-morrow with a dusky heir."

Comus bellow'd his Mighty Laugh, &
pass'd me the Proboscis of the Nargileh,
which bubbled to my Lungs its succulent
Apple Tobacco. My senses went Dizzy &
the Forests of the Sublife threw open
before me, as I caught of glimpse of the
Cyclic Immortality that Nuns will never
fathom. My senses Expanded & the
Earthquakes which began shaking the
City above only accentuated my Artistic
Reverie below. The Buffalo of Queen's
Lane could have been stampeding, but in
this Realm they merely added to the
Rhythm of the Dance.

One such Blast flung a Lady down the
Stairs who Instantly rang a Bell both
inside my Party & outside my Skull.
(Remember, The Metaphors of Truth are
the Synecdoches of Hyperspace.) Her
Leopard Fur Jacket disintegrated & her
Scarlet Toga became the Focal Point of
the Room. The Fissive Russian Beauty,
her Plastic Cleavage undisturbed by the
Falling Temples shaking these Merry
Chambers, hover'd toward my Spaces.
Her Sadness was unmask'd by her
Botox.

She slurr'd: "It's good to see another
Stranger in dis Joint. You're also staying
at Al Rashid, ja."

"Yes," I nodded, & rais'd my Brow to
Comus to bring her some Arrack.

"No, I am drinking Coke only. You are a
Mouth."

"Yes. Sort of. I hope to leave soon,
though, if my Passport works Westward."

She was brought a Soda. "I have been
trying all de day to get Counsel. I want to
meet de King about de Peace. I will go to
see Hospitals, meet de Children & All de
People."

"Aren't you a bit late: Why do you think
you'll make any difference."

She was surprised at my Question, as if
the Answer was Translucent: "You don't
recognize me from de Tabloids. I'm de
Miss Deutschland. Beauty has Effect on
People; if Beauty had no Effect, where
would dis World be, or Would dis World
be. We might still be in de Sterile
Monotonous Eden, ja. The King is, how
do you say it, Illusive, though. He is never
behind dis Corner, but de Next. I have a
rrang'd Counsel with his Eldest Son."

"Prince Uday," I was now looking
Interested again. "That's a No Brainer,
that Priapic Psychopath. I'm sure you'll
have Power to Resolve Conflicts with
him."

"I don't want to Resolve Conflicts, but
Avoid them Prematurely. You will light
my Cigarette." I lit her Cigarette. As the Flame
graced the Tobacco, the Splendor was so
Infinite that I wanted to hold it there
Indefinitely, but to avoid burning her
Already-Red Lipstick, I let it flee
temporally. "What is dis Word's Meaning,
'Priapic', I am not knowing it."

"Priapic is, uh, Fertile without Future. As
you came here to Quench, a Conflict with
Unnatural Pulsations; living for the
Suspension without the Preparation or
Resolution. When do you meet him."

She smiled eerily: "Ah, like de Breakfast
without de Fast. To-night. We have Private
Audience. We discuss de Peace."

"I wish you Success, but I think you'll find
Uday like de Beer without de Hangover."

"Perhaps," she giggled, & stuck a Prawn
in her Shaven Pits. "What Paper are you
writing for."

"Well, no Establish'd Organization.
Audiences don't always conform to the
Lizard News & Views, you know. Like
yourself, the King holds the Keys to a
Garden I wish to Inhabit, but it's a bit less
Naïve than your Innocent Harmony."

Her Nose flinch'd & Comus quickly refill'd
her Beverage. "What."

"You've heard of the Mukhabarat Powing
a Princess."

"O de Poor Princess. De Whole Town
vapors with her Breath."

I said: "Yes, well, that's my Scoop." As I
utter'd it, I realized the Femme-Activist's
Ono Sideboard & Peaceful Naïveté was a
Similarly Quixotic Passion to mine & Pat
Dillon's. I drown'd in another Glass of
Arrack. Her Rubberiz'd Soul Glimmer'd
with its Award Winning Obscurity, which
my Alcoholiz'd Goggles Enhanc'd, & the
Satyrs upp'd the Tempo. We took the
Floor with Rhythmic Movement & the Four
Walls of the Mundane Room push'd
Outward to the Metal Earth. A Shock from
Above reveal'd Portals towards All Four
Compass Points as the Underground
Apartment Widen'd its Scope.

Sabah & I jump'd at this Development
Instantly, & I in Parting kiss'd the
Supermodel for Mutual Fruition. My Driver
predicted that North would lead us
towards the King's Grand Steeple, where
rumor held it held a Bible ink'd with his
own Blood. The Portal was a Dark Void
without the Moon, even though
Carcinogenic Florescence lined the Thick
Brown Dirt, where Worms had Erected
their Pillars in the Moldering Graves. My
Weary Feet stumbled from the Quakes &
mine own Intoxication, but my Mind was
Boundlessly Sober nor no Soil nor
Silence could Encage it. After a Foot or a
Mile, hymn'd along by the distant
Chanting of Apocalyptic Monks, the Floor
of the Steeple's Camera became our
Ceiling, & Eternity loom'd beneath.

Thirteen Spiraling Levels of Books took
away my Breath, & at the Bottoms a Pool
of Scintillating Waters Reflected the
Raphael above, casting the Impression of
a Fathomless Core. "It's not Safe
Upward," my Driver whisper'd: "so we'll
have to find the continuing Portal beneath
this Library." A Mole shot past us, & we
down descended through the Myriad of
Books, whose Dates were Priceless &
Prices were Timeless. Their Rarity
Multiplied as the Circumference
Diminish'd, & I soon found myself
coughing from the Dust: The Stale
Condensation tripping my Sensual
Organs as their Words became less
similar to mine own Fleeting Language.
Thirteen Spiraling Levels of Books
mellowly receded as a Stroller inches its
way down a Frank Lloyd Wright; & the
Oldest Chronicles sung their Solemn
Song, in Unison as are all Origins. The
War Above the Ground became the War of
All Generations.

As the Nuclear Pond approach'd, my
Percepts created a dashing object like a
Won Ton floating in the Styx. As my Pupils
contracted, the Snout of a Lusty Dolphin
illuminated the Lowest Manuscripts. It
chirp'd at us, & I ask'd if it knew the way
through.

"Through to where you are headed," it
warbl'd back.

I replied: "I'm not sure. Is there a Way to
the Prisoner's Ward from this Steeple."

The Dolphin circled around, & came
closer. "The Waters connect All the
Earthly Architecture. Yea, the Excretions of
the Isis form a Labyrinth twixt All the
Republican Bunkers. The Dungeon is the
Most Dangerous."

"But how does one get there."

"Can you hold your breath. Breathing is
an addiction like All the Pleasures of the
Planet. Complete Abjuration is Suicide.
Excess is Sin. & What is Sin but the Duct
Tape of Mortality. But what is Moderation if
not a Fetter of Sevenfold Morality. There's
No Easy Answer, but Hold your Breath &
Follow Me, & I'll lead you unto Prison.
Nelson will show you the way."

I had no choice but penetrated the Earthly
Pond, & the Treasures of the Deep
Sparkled vastly beyond what I could
behold. Lava flow'd through the Pastels of
Coral, & Fish of Every Size & Color
consumed each other throughout All the
Eons. The Chemical Bubbles on both
sides of the Visualization reminded me of
my Heavenly Withdrawal, & I became
Escalatingly Thirsty as Nelson the
Dolphin lectur'd mysterious:

"Why do I enjoy working for Man. I locate
their Water Mines & Tune my Finely
Wrought Sonar just for their Petty Wars of
Sword & Fire, indicating Swimming
Enemies for a wee bit of Tuna. Does the
Whale worship at Man's Footsteps as the
Hungry Dog, or does he scent the
Mountain Prey, because his Nostrils Wide
draw in the Ocean. These Waters have
smell'd every Atom of Earth, harboring
Fish even Adam had no name for. You
know why. Because this Ocean Chaos
only drown'd Atlantis when his Dumb
Wife traded Elysium for Procreation. Now
that these Waters breathe Life into every
Holy Act of Generation, there's no
Reversing the Entropy of Evolution. But
look how the Perfections of Eden are
Reflected in Percentage through every
Particle of this Beauteous Universe,
Mutable though it be. Not such a Bad
Trade, after all, Sandy. It just means you
have to Weed through the Void to Locate
your Divided Soul, but at least it's not
Monotony. So why do I degrade mine own
Animal Individuality to become a Tool of
Man. Because those Tools are Why Earth
Fell, & the Angelic Portions are Highest in
Man at his Most Best, & if we didn't have
these Fallen Seas, I wouldn't have so
comfortable a home. For Every Thing That
Lives is Holy, Life delights in Life. I just
wish their Funding wasn't so obsess'd
with the Wars of Mars & Venus."

I try'd to Nod at his Speech, but I was
having trouble keeping up with All the
Mermaidic Distractions of the Abyss & my
noticeable lack of Oxygen. He wink'd &
grinn'd a Cheshire Grin & chang'd from
Opaque to Invisible. I gasp'd for Air, &
found it & myself wet in a Darkness
fraught with Vapid Smells & Clinks.

Out of the Darkness, a flick & a Match
pierc'd the Wind: Technology offering a
simple Fire to the Emptiness. Soon a
Lamp burn'd down the Black, & I could
see all of the Cave Cell, with the Bald Pat
Dillon's Shadow smiling wilder than
before.

He said: "I knew I'd find a Good Man.
Funny how the safest Bunker is Prison.
Why did you come."

"An Idealistic Dolphin led me through the
Deep."

"Odd we should Cross Again - once
again I'm returning from where you strive
to go."

I winced. "Although Laziness is the
Easiest way to Harmonize with Gravity,
there's more Pain below than Pleasure: a
Shame the Core could be so Hot." Dillon
bent his Camera away from the Spheres
& his Shadow grew Giant-form'd,
consuming the Light.

He bellow'd menacingly: "As a Priest I
can only advise to avoid the Surface until
the Campaign has subdued. Why seek
the Princess when my Company offers
Safety & Two-Dimensional Pleasure."

Again he grew, as Og of Sihon fiercely
guarding the Ever During Doors of the
Prison. I form'd a Knife of the Fire which
extended Swordlike. "She would call if I
could hear, Hermaphrodite; open your
Rear Portcullis, & I'll Permeate the
Stratospheres."

He cackled & an Attractive Shield became
his Chestplate: "The Only way Out is
Through, Sandy."

"Away," I cried, rearing my Blade; but as
the Great Satan became more Magnetic, I
lost the difference between North & South
& the Floor & the Ceiling, & fell backwards
beaten into a Coma, & the Serpent
Temple crush'd us both.

II.
Awoke I upward from my Reverie of
Disconnected Sorrow, amidst
Lamentations of Pain. The Walls of the
Hospital chang'd from the Soot of my
Inner Eyelids to the Yellow of the
Wallpaper, & I wrote in Night while the
Clocktower beckon'd the Morn. Old Nuns
in Black Ayaba Robes sprung like Spring
Flowers round my Bunk, & as a Doctor
arose in their thickness, they squatted to
the floor & became as buds. My Back
rebell'd & I wail'd & the Doctor shot at my
Hangover his Old Czech Brno dosed with
Banana Sugar, & in digestion again I
became unconscious.

Without the Infinite of the World beheld by
my Senses, I felt the past of the
Mukhabarat's Armor'd Escalators leading
me from the Bleakness of the Dungeon
towards the Informative Invulnerability of
the Radcliffe Infirmary. I felt my Privacy
inspected for Circumcision, as the Secret
Police whisper'd of Holy Conspiracies:
"The Chosen Land has been Hijack'd by
a Small Group of the Lord's Followers:
First they took Manhattan, Then they took
Berlin. The Bitumen Energy which
Flooded in Chaos the Unnamed Female
Soul of the Virgin Soil made the Cowboy
trade his Steed for a Shotgun." Their
Voices faded from my Memory, & I could
hear the Bangs & Frogs of the Sand
Storm.

The Hospital was shaken back & forth
from the Mighty Winds, & the Doctor
wheel'd next to me a Boy with a Black
Torso & Arms horribly Burnt. The Child
look'd barely alive, but his Sensory
Organs were so charr'd nor no Nerves
nor Will existed to register his Suffering.
The Doctor puff'd a Cigarette, & violated
his Physician's Suspension by Shedding
a Tear.

I blink'd at him, & he exhaled at my Face:
"You're Free to Check Out of the Infirmary
when you will, Sandy, as we're Full Up
with more Serious Cases, but you might
wish to wait until the Sand Storm
recedes." A Blast swayed the Yellow
Walls, & the Candles of the Ceiling
Flicker'd Dangerously.

Doctor Saleh sniff'd the air, & I sneez'd:
"How long will it last."

"You can smell it: It smells like Earth.
Whenever I smell this, it reminds me of
the Eternal Death. Think of the Land's
History: What is that History but Six
Thousand Years of Generation &
Decomposition, from the Days of Babylon
& Arthur, & the Druids erecting Twelvefold
Stone Rainbows to the Sky. Millions of
People have died on this Earth & Become
a part of it, & open your Nostrils wide &
take in their Particles: the Food for Worms
becomes the Paint of your Canvas. Their
Bodies are part of the Land, the Earth we
are Breathing. I think it will last for a Day
or so Longer."

"Well," I said, "I think I'll brave it & return to
my Hotel."

Sabah brought the Car close to the Door
& I, unable to function Naked in Nature,
closed my Eyes betwixt it & the Hospital.
The Tawny Hurricane became the City, as
Yellow Dust mix'd with the smoke
billowing from dozens of Oil Fires. The
Sky turn'd a Blackish-Purple. Pedestrians
wheez'd & clench'd their aching heads,
attempting to set a Limit to their Fallen
State whilst they adapted to a Restrain'd
Existence. Locusts coated the King's
Unfinish'd Mosques & Pyramid Mansions
like Snow, & his Stone of Night hover'd
Dragonform oer the Poor, though they
could barely feel it for the Smoke. The
Headlights of the Automobile charm'd the
Dark Morning only with their Attempt.

Sabah spoke: "All of the Stores are now
closed, as in a Tropical Storm, except the
Kebab Vans &, curiously, a Luggage
Shop. I've transferr'd your belongings
unto the Palestine, as the Al Rashid is no
longer sound as a Mouth Haven."

The Palestine rose before us as sheet of
Brown-Tinted Glass, with a Central Atrium
& Bulbous Exposed Elevators. Old
Sheikhs spill'd out of Every Window, with
their Dish-Dash Robe's Gold
Embroidering attempting to replace the
Sunshine. The Lobby was a Beehive of
Multicultural Bisexuality as I pervaded it, &
many of the faces had also relocated
from the Al Rashid & the Randolph. I was
surprised to see Miss Germany, no
longer in High Spirits, her Elastically
Enhanc'd Breasts Sagging like Futurity,
as she Check'd Out to Creep back to her
Motherland. I try'd to Smile at her that the
Soul of Sweet Delight can never be
Defiled, but the Female Insects which
Stain'd her Dress had been Swatted by
the Indifferent Hand of the King's Little
Boy.

Sabah had prepared my Hotel Room
against the Attacks, with Pink Masking
Tape in Herringbone Crosses cross
every Mirror & Window. My Reflection was
x'd with a Gay Union Jack, so Shards
wouldn't further obscure it after a
Liberating Blast, & the Beds form'd a
Barricade before the Sliding Doors & the
Balcony Parapet. On the Television, a
Pink Cross shrouded the Sedative
Narcotics of Aaron Brown.

The Al Rashid's Holy Book had eaten my
First Letter, so I form'd a New Quill &
Paper & began again.

With a Topological Inversion, All the
Heavens of Without became Within & I
Enter'd unto the Bosom of Every Thing
that was Human, enlarging from one
Giant Blast of My Mind's Perception.
External Democracy became Worldwide,
as long as I Imagined it & no Fetter
hinder'd my All-desiring Flesh.
Prematurely, the Barricade broke Inward
& Out of the Sand arose the Unsheddable
Spice, Cicelia Murra, the Ideal
Womankind. The Sun rose Behind her in
the West as the Brownness of her Eyes
Illuminated all the Lands in Equality, &
Pity came no longer necessary. In the
midst, Seven Parisian Towers sprouting
Limitless Oil & Energy sprung like Wild
Thyme from every Parking Lot in America,
& each Brother rejoic'd round her Nudity;
their Fifes & Drums filling the Silence with
Harmony; & to that Accompaniment, the
Princess sang to me in Emancipated
Desire her Battle Hymn:

Thy Seed will I Establish if I drink Too
Many Beers,
Sure John Brown can die a Martyr, but
we'll live Ten Thousand Years,
For thy Beauty will Endure past Twenty
Dantes or Shakespeares,
The Truth is Marching On.

Glory Glory Hallelujah.
Glory Glory Hallelujah.
Glory Glory Hallelujah.
The Truth is Marching On.

Arise my Theotormon I am Pure as
Neatherd's Cream,
Suckle Essence from my Nipple, & your
Death is not a Dream,
For the Water's Always Changing, but the
Stream is still the Stream,
The Truth is Marching On.

Glory Glory Hallelujah.
Glory Glory Hallelujah.
Glory Glory Hallelujah.
The Truth is Marching On.

I bent my Eyes in Shock & Awe, wearing
hard the Threshold of my Cave, & the
Sensory Oppression of the King
descended unto Sensual Chaos, & again
I was alone.

FIN

A Response from Corey Williams:

As we learn from his preface, James casts his epic work after Blake's Visions of the Daughters of Albion and Jon Lee Anderson's tripartite series of essays on the state of Baghdad which appeared in the New Yorker. Here is a link to a page with those essays. Just scroll down the titles in red until you see Letters from Baghdad.

http://www.newyorker.com/archive/previous/?030512frprsp_previous1

I include below a quote from the following website, which elucidates the relationships that are at the crux of Blake's Visions of the Daughters of Albion. If you click on this link it will take you to a copy of the frontispiece of the work.

http://www.tate.org.uk/britain/exhibitions/blakeinteractive/imagin/cast_06.html

"This picture is the frontispiece of Visions of the Daughters of Albion. It shows (from right to left) Bromion, Oothoon and Theotormon. Bromion (whose name means 'roar' or 'inarticulate sound' in Greek) has raped Oothoon, but they are now bound back to back. Oothoon, the 'soft soul of America', represents both the innocent sexuality of the 'savage', and the political freedom of North America. She is in love with Theotormon who returns her love, but is unable to act, considering her polluted. In the picture he is literally wreathing himself into knots of indecision. His name derives from 'theo' (god) and 'torment' or 'torah' (Hebrew law), and he represents man tortured by the restrictions of conventional Judeo-Christian morality.

In this poem the Daughters of Albion are a species of chorus who do little more than 'weep' and 'sigh towards America'. They represent monarchy-oppressed Britain's yearning for liberty.

" Our narrator seems to be just as disembodied as the written narration itself. He feels himself do things, observing them with detached consciousness. He is a 'eye' posing as an 'mouth,' an American journalist venturing throughout besieged Baghdad. He is in search of something that seems at odds with the reality he finds himself surrounded by, so he finds he must retreat from reality. He is always just behind his object. This object would seem to be Oothoon, representative of democracy and 'the innocent sexuality of the savage.' However, Welsch casts an ironic light on this revelation when we first behold it through our narrators sleeping eyes.

"Finally dreaming, it seem'd as
if a Woman was Stereotypically Rising on
a Sea of Clouds, her Naked Purity
glimmering in the Indiffuse Sunshine.
She rose her Arm & from her Idealized
Body could have been Any Beauty, her
Bosom hovering as if unaffected by
Gravity; but as soon as I began to focus
on her Face, on her Kindly Piercing Brown
Eyes, the Mist which obscur'd her Loins
receded, & I knew her to be the One I
sought and Only. I whisper'd her Fluxile
Name, seeking to steer the Winds so to
push me Westward in her direction.

Along the way, our narrator runs into a couple of characters. Pat Dillion, another American and an 'eye,' is something of a war fanatic who came to Iraq for 'love of Danger, Fascination with Destruction.' He has a rifle tattooed on each temple. His cut and dry plan for post-war Iraq 'ain't drowned in Oceanic Chaosity.' He says: Kill the woman, convert the Convertible.

Our narrator has much more of the poets eye, at one point seeking to give his shrouded female barber's face 'a local habitation and a name,' invoking Shakespeare and giving to his Barber's figure the universal significance of all womankind. After this revelation, he "arose from the Chair, & Penetrated the Night I had molded from the Burka's clay." (fyi a burka is a woman's veil). This molded night takes on an aspect curiously similar to Oxford nightlife, with pubs littered about gratuitously. "Electric radious pledg'd echoless rag-times, cascading across the Tigris … & the lizardy Masonic Dome of the Queen's College stood as Dead Stone of Night to the Bacchic Revelry beneath."

In entering one pub, he runs into a naïve, pacifistic German supermodel who has an appointment to meet with Prince Uday and discuss the peace plans. In this underground nightclub/ hookah bar/ pub the blasts of the bombing mix with the beat of the dance-hall music.

One such blast opens up four portals corresponding to the four points of the compass. Our narrator, with his guide, makes his way through the tunnel, accompanied by the chants of apocalyptic monks, and finds himself in a steep walled in by thirteen spiraling levels of books, the rarest being found at the top. Below is a pool of water giving the impression of a 'fathomless core.' When they make their way down to this pool, they encounter a new guide, Nelson the Dolphin, with whom they swim towards the 'prisoners ward.' According to Nelson, "Yea, the Excretions of the Isis form a Labyrinth twixt All the Republican Bunkers. The Dungeon is the Most Dangerous." On the way, Nelson lectures about the nature of his dedication to human service.

These Waters have
smell'd every Atom of Earth, harboring
Fish even Adam had no name for. You
know why. Because this Ocean Chaos
only drown'd Atlantis when his Dumb
Wife traded Elysium for Procreation. Now
that these Waters breathe Life into every
Holy Act of Generation, there's no
Reversing the Entropy of Evolution. But
look how the Perfections of Eden are
Reflected in Percentage through every
Particle of this Beauteous Universe,
Mutable though it be. Not such a Bad
Trade, after all, Sandy. It just means you
have to Weed through the Void to Locate
your Divided Soul, but at least it's not
Monotony. So why do I degrade mine own
Animal Individuality to become a Tool of
Man. Because those Tools are Why Earth
Fell, & the Angelic Portions are Highest in
Man at his Most Best, & if we didn't have
these Fallen Seas, I wouldn't have so
comfortable a home. For Every Thing That
Lives is Holy, Life delights in Life. I just
wish their Funding wasn't so obsess'd
with the Wars of Mars & Venus."

Soon after this beautiful speech our narrator finds himself gasping for air in a dark cave which is then lit by a match in the hand of Pat Dillon. Their meeting one another in a cave is obviously a reference to the cave of the Vision of the Daughters of Albion. In this case, Dillon and our narrator nearly come to blows because Dillon gloats that he has just come 'from where you strive to go,' ie the princess. When our narrator bravely asserts his continuing desire to find his object, Dillon stands in his path advising him to 'avoid the Surface until the Campaign has subdued.' In this construction, it would seem that Dillon represents the Bromion character and our narrator the Oothoon character. I say this because the two seem inextricably bound to one another, both by being in the cave and by being Americans in Iraq. Dillon is the militaristic American, and represents Bromion perhaps because he has just returned from the battlefield, where the use of force was penetrating a civilization and, in a way, raping democracy. Our narrator represents Oothoon because he or his type, perhaps brought the Dillon type to Iraq because of his ecstasy in having picked the democarigold, if I may. Our narrator might also be said to possess elements of Theotormon since what drives him is his search for the maiden democracy. However, his decisive, insistent search puts him at odds with Theotormon's constraint born of judeo-christian morality. Now, back to Dillon and narrator, just before they can clash, the temple collapses and crushes them both.

Our narrator awakes in a hospital, wounded and much humbled to the reality of the world surrounding him. He is confronted with the realities of warfare, from suspicious inspection of his own person to the charred, living torso of a young boy. Outside, they are in the midst of a violent sand-storm. Returning to a 'safe' hotel, he again attempts to invoke the vision of his beauty, the maiden of democracy. What he sees is a vision of universal democracy spread the world over, so that "pity came no longer necessary." "In the midst, Seven Parisian Towers sprouting Limitless Oil & Energy sprung like Wild Thyme from every Parking Lot in America, & and each Brother rejoic'd round her (maiden democracy) Nudity." This becomes further a vision of Horror when the maiden sings a battle hymn of exploitation, proclaiming her innocence as she sings of the glorious religious and economic imperial empire 'democracy' will establish through enforced conscription. "Arise my Theotormon I am Pure as Neatherd's Cream, Suckle Essence from my Nipple, & your Death is not a Dream." Theotormon being, once again, representative of a figure tied up in moral confusion.

The coda of the poem is this passage:

I bent my Eyes in Shock & Awe, wearing
hard the Threshold of my Cave, & the
Sensory Oppression of the King
descended unto Sensual Chaos, & again
I was alone.

Obviously, the poem ends with a profound sense of horror and misgiving at the state of affairs in Iraq. However, this bleak picture is mediated by our knowledge of the narrator's continuing quest to find this flower of democracy. We regain a sense of hope when we see that his desire for purity is also mediated by our narrator's dual representation as Theotormon, who supplies moral consciousness without moral certainty.