EHMH: An Anatomical Prophecy
by Eurydice
 

Come hither; I will shew into thee the judgment of the great whore that sitteth upon the waters.

Rev. 17:1

What looks to you like an island is not what it seems but a great fish that has spread itself out to sleep in the middle of the sea.

A Thousand and One Nights

 

THE LEGEND: "The Apocrypha of How She Came Out, and How She Was Discovered"

The Woman was sitting on a scarlet beast with seven heads and ten horns, wearing pur-ple and scarlet finery and gold jewels adorned with pearls and precious stones, alone in the midst of the wilderness, waiting, when they found her. She was drunk. The beast was writhing in bliss. She looked oceanic and regal. The beast looked tame but unclean. The explorers who rescued her found no source of sustenance or inebriation anywhere in reach though she was biblical in size and disposition. They could not contain her. They were rugged powerful men whose business and habit was to survive the most adverse conditions, including frost, war, pestilence, for extended periods, but they had never ventured into badlands of such severity. She smiled, and instantaneously a sand storm and a flashflood enveloped them and transported them, half dead, far away. They summoned reinforces and returned to the spot where they believed they had encountered her, but she had vanished leaving no trace. Since then, a vast unofficial search is on. Since then, thousands have tried to explain her. Meanwhile, history keeps lashing the earth every month and then retreating limply in frothy silence to the closest seafront, to regurgitate abraded exiles and pilgrims who for generations had descended through the centu-ries from one salt-stained displacement to the next until the day they had harnessed their sal-vaged rust-plated anchors to their children grazing on the shores, and then, determined to escape the latest sea-borne slavery, had sewn together their own skins into a sightless flesh-enclosed tunnel that they hoped ultimately would connect the world to its origin. Their unifica-tion took the shape of a richly endowed Woman capable of intoxicating and infecting with her pure immorality all the inhabitants of the earth. Each generation committed new flesh to this communal home and temple and revered it as the Mother. This merger came to be known as EHMH [eahmeh]. She, like God, was everyone. Out of respect for the unspeakable, insiders called her Emmanuelle the Great.

 

THE FOLK TALE: "Is Alexander the Great Alive?"

Once upon a time, there was a king whose name was Alexander. He had a beloved sister who was beautiful. Her name was not Cleopatra or Thessaloniki, which are the names of his other sisters. She was his secret. Alexander conquered almost the whole world and was called the Great. After that he decided he wanted to live forever. So he went to see the wise men and ask for their advice. The wise men said: "Dearest king, this is difficult. You must find the water of life and drink it. It is in a distant dark pit. No human can reach it. You must first go across two huge mountains that open and close like traps. Then you must kill the fiery dragon that guards the spring of life. No one has come back from this journey."

Alexander the Great decided to take the risk. He rode his horse, Bucephalos, who could fly, although he didn't have wings. He flew through the two mountains in the span of a single human breath, and planted his sword into the heart of the fire-breathing dragon, and covered himself with two shields to escape the flames, and without halting rode his wild steed downward into the darkness until he heard the purl of a bucolic spring and blindly felt around until he filled his bottle with the water of life. Exhausted by his labors, he let his faithful horse bring him home where he left his bottle on his bedside and instantly fell asleep. His sister came in while he slept and saw it and thought it was old regular water. She didn't like to waste it, so she drank some and poured the rest into some pretty oriental lilies and coral bells on the windowsill. The lilies and bellflowers she watered never withered. They turned into perennials. When Alexander the Great woke up and realized what had happened, he got very angry and cursed his sister to never find rest. So she turned into a mermaid. Since then, she has been living in the sea.

That was 2326 years ago. But she cannot forget what happened and she cannot forgive herself. She always hopes for an end. So every time she sees a ship, she asks the sailors if Alexander is alive.

No one knows her name, but sailors know to please the princess, especially since she is by now bigger than the greatest white whale. This is what they know, and this is what you should know too:

When they answer 'no', she raises huge waves in her grief that sink that unfortunate ship.

When they say yes ...

she smiles, more beautiful than the elements, and sings happy ancient songs to them.

She religiously filed her nails down to the fingertips on puckered cliffs every sunset to protect the world from herself. Her calcified pubic hair swung blue and braided like anchor chains. She stood 7,130 cubits tall, and had calloused fins instead of feet. When a memory struck her, her breath came out in cascading gales that shook the webbed boat ribs and rust-gutted oil drums out of her fossilized hair. For 4,000 years she had not smiled or menstruated, but her embrined nipples, sucked by the tireless sun, remained white and soft like wet salt. "It takes an average person so long to sweat a handful of salt," she thought optimistically, as she mentally rummaged through her cavernous guts for reserves of patience and bursts of clarity, "so God only knows how long it might take them to shed history." She couldn't postpone worrying that, in the meantime, her pubes might fall off from all the coming-and-going of time and age.

Fall was her origin and birthright. Throughout the cycles, without fear or hatred or even resenting her cumulus, she had grown larger with every fall. She sat quietly on the Bermuda triangle occasionally parting the rainbow oil slicks with her iron-sinewed thighs, and fed on sparkling fibrous plankton, like other women in solitary conditions have had to feast on worm-crammed soil, and as she stuffed her mouth and locked her teeth to sieve out the shiny toxic slosh and plastic debris before it polluted her bulging esophagus, she wished she could suck on an A-bomb fireball, and in the same breath she wondered if Jonah were still keeping house inside her hourglass pyloric orifice, boiling dry for himself morsels from her submucous lining or whatever darting fish slipped through her coral teeth, with the fortitude of a biblical Crusoe determined to see his God to the end, stubbornly choking through the fleshy dungeon doors of her colon, moving unceasingly toward the virgin sand-shrouded hole of her butt. She had never vomited.

Her memory came in hard, milky, eye-popping spurts, like a man. How many forgotten others could be living inside her hyper-mobile duodenum, and were they mirthlessly copulating, as she suspected, in her crowded abdomen, multiplying at an explosive rate that endangered her? And what would happen if they-her insides--spilled out into the world? Life depended on the resilience of her thick skin and its capacity to expand as she absorbed in daily compulsive mouthfuls the world's unspent dreams. She shuddered at her own abundant openness. She didn't know who she was or how to focus or why she had come and was still coming into being.

 

Boyle's Law of Thermodynamics: Keep on adding molecules into a single vessel and the lid will blow off the pressure cooker. "Taking off the lid" is the literal meaning of the Apocalypse.

 

GROWTH CONTROL IN HISTORICAL CORRUPTION & THE INFERIOR SURFACE OF HISTORY

History does not look to the past and has no concern for dates, except in fairytales or ads. In fact, history is the largest vital organ of the body, an hourglass ductless gland situated below the diaphragm in the upper abdominal quarter between the liver, the gallbladder and the spleen, just within the left nipple line. History is covered by a tough fibrous sheath, Herodotus' capsule, which carries the blood vessels and strands of connective tissues that provide the scaffolding for the many intrahistoric bile passages anastomosing and finally converging in the Pyrrhic excretory channel of history, thus permitting free escape of the human bile--which contains salts, Machiavelli pigments that impart the characteristic color of the feces, and other unnamed poisons. Briefly stated, the bile, which cannot be processed by the liver, is absorbed by the pustular historical mucosa through the sphincter of Waterloo. Within the sinusoids of history and attached to their broken walls are found the cells of Auschwitz and Dachau, which are highly phagocytic and whose function remains obscure, although it is established that they are normally concerned with blood destruction. While the human subjects binge, fornicate, compete and quote movies, their histories beat inside them sending out newly detoxified blood to their limbs and brains. That is until the day when a lethal cumulative virus unexpectedly attacks their immunity networks and they become historically infected.

When history malfunctions, it stops filtering out the acidic Attila poison that otherwise would putrify the bloodstream, and an inky Napoleonic fog spreads out inside the afflicted body. Simple activities such as sharing a glass of water with a toothed foreigner or eating bloodstained eggs or being kissed by a feebleminded fly that has feasted on a turkish bathroom suffice to cause these infections. Early diagnosis consists of purple fecal accumulation, waxy enlargement of the tender historic organ toward the free border of the ribs, and an increasing tympanitic Marxist sound caused by the subjacent intestines. No one is immune, and there is no known antidote, and no relief for the ill. Because the social effects of the disease remain profitable, scientists worldwide have evaded its research.

The historically stricken individual, now a mutant, has two choices. As with all human choice, these are identical in as much as they both end in death; i.e., the diseased has the choice of the condemned, history being the damnation.

At this stage, the history patient can either become a murderer or an exile. An effete distaste for blood often makes the first choice impractical. As an exile, the history patient must withstand the spastic sympathy of ignorant natives, stiff laws that treat exiles as museum displays or alternatively as slaves, and a life of padded inactivity spent prone in bed, subject to the incessant pains of the pounding history within, which are manifested in a swelling of the flesh, due to acute historrhage. Screaming, hyperventilating, passing gas, fainting, and breathing through nano-oxygen masks are the typical methods available to the patient to alleviate despair. As the normal area of historic dullness is diminished, the patient experiences Tet sweats and Mao chills, anorexia, fullness and vomiting of frothy mucus, flatulence, constipation, glossolalia and Cleopatra convulsions. Beaujolais-red pus, smelling of burnt cinnamon, can be extracted from the wildly fluctuating history by aspirating needle. As obstruction increases, imperialist portal blood opens new insurgent channels and floods the abdominal region, and the superficial historical veins en-large, notably around the umbilicus, forming the so-called "1917 caput-medusae," until the belly explodes. Having no distraction from the slow ballooning torment, feeling his/her history extending out of the frail bodily cavity, the patient is helpless in fighting the symptoms and can only hope that his/her veins can withstand the hourly piercings that doctors recommend as a means of knowing when the patient will enter the expected coma, so that they may switch on the life-preserving machinery, at which point the victim is legally owned by the state and illegally dead.

Murder is the simpler option. This patient abandons all daily responsibilities as pedestrian distractions from the only remaining commitment: historical cleansing. She/he lunges into dramatic outer explosion in order to delay the inner explosion of the entrapped historic bile, by stalking historical enemies and bathing in their blood. Enemy blood is an intoxicant which helps to soothe the patient's massively aching historical conscience, as the most immediate symptom of the disease, evinced long before physical examination can detect the growth of history, is the inflation of the patient's communal memory and guilt to the point of bursting, and only by bursting into vengeful insurrection can the patient subdue for a while the asphyxiating typhoon raging within his/her constricted diaphragm which prevents the diseased from breathing. As science has always known, bloodletting releases nervous tension. The slaughtering routine also mentally prepares the patient for his/her own fatal prognosis. Best of all, this patient stands a fair chance to die in glorifiable action.

CONCLUSION: This infection will spread through the world faster than any plague in human existence.

"I am the sum total of a history that has no end," she thought when she thought of herself.

Her mind was a poly-tiered overlay, 20,000 links deep, of interactive Gordian knots and ramous nodes composed of obscure massacres and holidays, sunk into a putrefying swamp swarming with countless recalcitrant corpses that made navigating through her thoughts primi-tive and dangerous. Her memory was the ruin of Babel, a rabid mammoth desiring machine. Her hair was 3,000 feet long. Her ass spanned 2 1/2 miles in circumference, her hymen was the sum total of 3,000 maidens, her appetite was her compass, and her orality was immeasurable, shock-ing.

"What surprises me," she told every doomed ship that came her way, as her smoldering urge to chat momentarily checked her temptation to grip the boat like a clubbed penis and shake it or like a magic wand and wave it, "is that I don't feel fatter." The booming words curdled on her coated tongue and undermined her digestion. She enjoyed raising the ship to her nostrils with the precise leisure of a fetishist prolonging the suspense, and shut her watchtower eyes to better inhale the sharp bouquet of living human hope, and to clumsily decipher the wave-drowned cries of panicked sailors recanting anything they thought might save them from her spine-chilling lips.

Her tongue stretched longer than Behemoth, razor-edged and blistery from suckling salt and being regularly bitten whenever the fragments of memory thudded like boulders through her windpipe. She imagined that her skin tasted of something buried. "Is there anything bigger than devouring against your will?" she wondered. "Did he who made the lamb make me?"

She liked riding the wave or the beast--whichever was bigger, for she was undoubtedly a size queen--and would have liked fornicating, if she were to find her match in size or spirit or lust. She had never fucked, out of a deep-plunged fear that the inhabitants of the earth would become inebriated with the juices of her fornication and go rampant. As a result, she bloated on. She wished she had a body full of holes. Would she ever birth, vomit, bleed, deflate or defecate?

Her cliff-torn fingertips, shredded when the impulse to be normal overpowered her, proved she had feelings, self-destructive ones, that came in erosive floods eddying through her glands, imported from the riotous crowds inside her, causing her seismic anxiety. But she had no way to launch those surrogate feelings to the surface, for she didn't know the names of all their horses: she didn't know who had originally felt them, how she had inherited them, how she could either shed them or express them without destroying the world. She worried that letting it all out, sexually or emotionally, would bring the end of time. So she let them snowball.

By now her insides were an annealed maze of scarlet veins in which amnesiac marble-eyed prophets, some bearing seven heads and ten hundred cocks, conspired, blackmailed and preached. Zooming through her Holland tunnel-sized arteries, they scuffled around lined pillars of salt, tracked false martyrs into her kidneys, haggled their way to her overcrowded bladder, clanged homemade pots and pans in her veins and screeched triumphantly, "Let us go out!" making aqua goose bumps bigger than geese run up and down her cobalt oily skin.

History had been poured indiscriminately into her helpless flesh day after day, and con-tinued to percolate through her open pores, eons after she had reached her sensible saturation point. "History produces so much gas on the planet," she regularly marveled with deep-felt awe.

As she squatted on her ambergris-streaked haunches ingesting the latest hapless ship, her thudding fins, scaled with jellied fish viscera, splashed a ten-mile crescent of wave-combed seaweed and algae. The sun rippled harp-strings of blue light through her pubic forest, rhythmi-cally unveiling her cunt like a grease-stained Abominable Sea Monster. Her labia, tendered by constant currents, flapped gently to and fro with a flat grin like the primrose wings of an aberrant manta ray. Her agile asshole sprouted warm bubbles that affected most onshore weather.

On sunny quiet days, she wished that she could feel, even for a single instant, a man's eyelashes batting against her labia. And yet upon her forehead a name was invisibly written, a mystery: EMMANUELLE THE GREAT, THE DAUGHTER OF OUTCASTS, HARLOTS, AND THE OBSCENE ABOMINATIONS OF THE EARTH, THE CONSUMER OF HISTORY.

"Choice," she thought, desperate to distract her dyspepsia, "is not the same as dishonor. And I am sick of salt. I need a new path. I want out. Where do I start picking and choosing?"

 

The 3rd Millennium Axiom (based on data by Popcorn & Co., Licensed Trendologists): Those Who Wish to Escape the New Dark Age and Achieve Inner Peace Must Buy into the U.S. The reason is that, like a computer, America reduces every question to the simplest possible terms: yes or no, one or zero, black or white, true or false. This is the exit-free freedom of the future.

 

ABANDON ALL HOPE YE WHO ENTER HERE

Jonah slid between the bile-wet bodies on his way down Kidney Boulevard. Instinct told him he might slip out this time, if he was quick. He simply had to get himself to the Retro-peritoneal Square at the street level of the lower Thoracic and upper Lumbar vertebrae, on the Illipsoas Muscle tube, and then cut through Gerota's Fascia, an old warehouse confin-ing blood and urine extravasations, and ride any available renal blood vessel or nerve, into Kidney's Hilum, taking care not to fall into any returning capillary or arteriole between cortex and medulla--he'd been lost in peritubular venules before, hopelessly circling the Vena Cava--then he'd jump atop a hilar periaortic node before it drained, and join the urine. He could then let himself be filtered by the Glomerulus and collected in Bowman's Capsule. From there, the urine would transport him through the smelly proximal and distal convoluted tubule, Henle's Loop, and through the Pyramid of the Medulla into the caliceal cups, while he would be praying to his God that EHMH's blood pressure would not drop, and her urine forma-tion cease as a result. He braced himself at the thought of having to withstand the osmotic pressure of the already excreted urine in EHMH's collecting system. But his main problem was the Glomerulus. He had swum through thousands of liters of urine before, only to be stopped by that humungous fleshy sieve that strained corpuscles and protein and that had held him back each time. He wasn't Proteus. Only one percent of the body's total filtrate was ever excreted as urine into the renal pelvis, and he had to keep trying to make the cut. He'd never made it past the Glomerulus checkpoint, and he was sick of acting like a "waste product," always hanging around sodium, creatinine, uric acid, sulfates, phosphates, chloride and low molecular proteins. But he knew that if he succeeded, he would only have to follow the easy flow of the urine as it was moved by peristaltic waves across the Ureteropelvic Junction; swim a ways through the long muscular tunnel of the Bladder; and, assuming the bladder pressure was strong enough to prevent backing up of the urine (that dreaded vesi-coureteral reflux), he would swiftly pass through one of the three narrow gates to freedom: the iliac vesseled Uterers, the slits that would lead him straight to EHMH's tubular Ure-thra! As soon as the parasympathetic sensory fibers transmitted the stretch sensation of the distended bladder to the reflex center at level S2 to S4 of EHMH's spinal cord, and if, being toilet-trained, EHMH's higher centers did not choose to override that nervous stimuli and expand her bladder's capacity, the act of voiding or micturition would begin, and, by God, Jonah would course ecstatically along the alterior vault of EHMH's untouchable vagina, backstroke effortlessly between the labia minora, and find himself at sea.

Having spent centuries traversing the inside of a single female body, ever since a colossal slip of destiny had made him part of EHMH's vibrating anatomy, Jonah was anx-ious for dry land. Yes, EHMH had protected him from death and time, God and blood-thirst, solitude and dehydration; yes, she was "the spirit of God moving upon the face of waters," and it had been exhilarating to live inside a moist virgin. But God had taught him the impossibility of all escape; he'd seen "God's wonders in the deep." Yes. "Woe to the ship whose captain is lost," lamented the Talmud, and EHMH was lost. Jonah didn't want to be a "hidden Jew" like Columbus. He burned with the moral responsibility to emerge from his organic safe, take the world's rudder in his hands and steer "the spirit of the Lord to cover the earth as the waters that cover the sea."

So he fought his way through the soaked euphoric crowds on Pubo Avenue. One of the gyrating Trojan widows hit him in the nose with her spiraling elbow, and he reeled to the mossy tar-stained ground, but regained his footing before he could be trampled. The Epiphanic hordes spun with outstretched arms singing to the God who was pissing on them. ("Ha he ho! Laufet, Bruder, eure Bahn...freudig, wie ein Held zum Siegen! Ho jie! Ha ha...") He sloshed through the raw pink puddles, dodging the euphonious sopping revelers lauding, "O come, O come, Emmanuelle..." If you threw a kidney rock in EHMH, you'd likely hit a prophet.

"The next World War will be fought over salt!" divined a panhandling Cossack, his eyes gossiping with glowing pride at the oblivious bedouins who marched by, carrying a miniature blue sky on their raised hands ("O come, Desire of nations..."), and drifted off to the sound of thunderous applause from a nearby gonadal waterfall. Jonah stared with his sad philosopher's smile at the emaciated Christ asleep on his haunches like a chicken on a spit in a nearby pudendal gutter, whimpering in his sleep: "Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabachthani?" unaffected by the myriad atomic particles flying about the street in thick white uteroflakes. Jonah bolted to the underpass that led to the Retroperitoneal Square tube stop and there he waited for the Illipsoas Muscle, due any second. The station floor had pores big like the observation window of a U-boat, and when Jonah looked down he could see a drowning dirigible full of tiny gesticulating natives and sharks poking at EHMH's epidermis. Jonah sang as he'd always done, "I am cast out of thy sight; how shall I ever look again upon thy holy temple? The waters closed in over my life; the deep surrounded me; seaweed was wound around my head... etc." hoping God would hear him through the quaking layers of viscous lubricant and flesh, and break open EHMH with a miracle.

He boarded the Muscle. "I stretched my hand over the sea and turned the sea into a woman; and you went into the middle of the sea upon the dry ground of the woman and the waters rose like walls around," an itinerant Moses orated buckling and wobbling from wagon to wagon. "Dry, my ass, show-off!" Jonah yelled back.

He leapt out of the moving Muscle before anyone followed him and landed directly into Gerota's Fascia, face down in bloody muck and festering cysts of ancient urine. He waded through, leaning on sloshing renal blood vessels and spastic nerves that spurted acids and salts, and meandered around abandoned sculptural deposits of enough calcified miner-als to feed the population of the earth for a century. He squinted through the urogenital rain, trying to locate the ligament to Kidney's Hilum. Mauve flares shot out of the salty pillars and, as always, the cavernous hungry ground trembled under his feet. Even though Jonah had spent at least a millenium meticulously documenting the labyrinthine passages in EHMH's genitourinary tract, the ear-splitting echoes from the pulsing organs and the many shuddering curves still made it all but impossible not to get lost. Relying on his instinct, he followed the mauve beacons, squeezing into a low-dripping bowling alley, which he gradually recognized as Plaza Denonvillier's Fascia. Close, but not Kidney's Hilum.

It was the same old story: he now had to get back to Vena Cava, the main artery knot, and ask for directions. He ran blindly. Every second counted. He stopped when he heard voices.

"Our ancestors said, `Let there be an expanse in the midst of the water, that it may separate water from water.' And they called the expanse EHMH." This was Peter; Jo-nah recognized him by the stony locks, and a forehead worried with wrinkles leaking crystal-lized salt. Peter's voice was also unmistakable: it cackled in dry heaves, a result of too much direct channeling.

Jonah looked around hurriedly like a rat in his Skinnerbox to orient himself, grabbed the nearest pea-green soft doorknob and stumbled in. He found himself in a short dim hallway with a hot spring on the corner and followed it into the ADH (short for Antidiuretic Hormone) Pub. He was wet and his nose was bleeding from that unsettling woman's elbow. He rushed to the blistery bar and shook the oblivious singing bartender ("...save and give them victory over the grave..."). EHMH softened a man's heart like "water from heaven," Jonah thought, exasperated.

"Which artery to Kidney's Hilum?" he screeched, desperate to drown out the hymnal wails and the ubiquitous gutteral humming of EHMH. What was it about this body that made communication so tortuous? The Viking bartender pointed toward a rainbow-hued bubbling pool table across the chamber and baritoned: "Just dive into that mucosal tissue over there, and it'll take you straight to the Ureteropelvic Junction, Jonah...by thy drawing nigh; disperse the gloomy clouds of..." A shortcut! A smile from God! Jonah felt so lucky he ignored his usual paranoia about being recognized by anonymous and unwashed barbarians, sidestepped the singing patrons who swung in tendon-hammocks watching the All-Prophetorial Combat Network on EHMH's Higher Motor functions and munching terra-cotta-hued Apostleberry Crunch (60 parts potassium, 29 parts hydrogen ions, one part battery acid from shipwrecks). All Emmanuellians slept with their eyes open; Jonah could see on their ocular blobs reflected prophetorial combat. The prospect of a somber eternity in EHMH terrified him. He staggered past the hypnotically hymning sleepers, pinched his nose with two fingers, and dove headfirst into the swampy mucosal tissue that sucked him down like a frothy waterslide. He sank like a fetus.

He landed on his ass in the center of an astral pinball alley swirling in drifting sedi-ment, and sighed with relief. According to his centuries of calculations and in the light of his earlier forays into EHMH's excretory maze, and also assuming the Viking was well-informed, he was sitting in a Ureteropelvic Junction. "Hurray!" Jonah thought, and gave himself a second to thank his greedy God, "But thou didst bring up my life from the Pit, O Lord, my God!" He had bypassed the Glomerulus dam, that uterinary Scylla and Charyb-dis! He leapt up, his arthritic spine creaking, and looked for the liberating tunnel of the Bladder. Smelly bodily fluids were rising around him, but he held his chin high and marched on, swept by the furry (was it algae mould?) current, until the surge of the phosphoric river became too massive to resist, and he let himself float among the burning acrid waves. This was the part of his exodus Jonah loathed most, and not even his God could rescue him. Screw the Glomerulus, he thought, this is far more disgusting; I'd rather be sieved! He'd never seen so much urine in his whole chaotic life.

A question he'd often pondered came back to him now, as he struggled to breathe over the rushing fumes and ochre muck: Was EHMH cosmologically grounded? Was this vast body influenced by the moon, for instance? He'd never know unless he got out. Chunks of sodium splashed into his eyes. Gas winds rose to fifty knots. He kept his mouth tightly shut, and begged God to cut short his underurine journey and deliver him safe into the Elysian Urethra.

Suddenly, a peristaltic contraction sucked him into a fetid vacuum. Echoing winds purred out of EHMH's pelvirectal fossa. Gastric enzymes exploded all around. Flying through the rancid maelstrom, Jonah cried out: "The whore is passing gas."

Jonah had fought many rough seas, and had nearly drowned on countless occasions, but never had he witnessed such an austere determination in the liquid masses that sur-rounded him. He suddenly felt he was inside a living shrine meant for worship and absti-nence. He bowed. There could be no turning back now, no room for doubt, no more unbe-lief in this fated rite of passage. One day he would preach this vision to the non-mystical outside world.

And then the urine parted. Jonah spun in a deep whirlpool, the vinegary wash drum-ming in his ears. A stifling acidic heat fogged the leaky tunnel, and he was pulled in all direc-tions at once; his limbs felt dislocated. He was lost. "Those who heed false vanities forsake their.... What I have vowed, I will pay. Deliverance belongs to the Lord," he mechanically chanted on.

Vesicoureteral Reflux? Had he been detected? He knew not to oppose the current. All he could do was flow with the waste, and keep an eye out for an iliac vessel; if he could grab onto one as onto an oar, it would lead him through a Uterer, and lo! Urethra!

She didn't know the measure of things. She'd never known moderation. When she slept, her lustrous mass stretched out over the high seas like a shapely continent, and at the lapping windy blast of her nostrils, the waves stood upright, the sunless depths congealed, and every living thing in sight sank as lead into the canyon of her lungs. As she snored, her hormones absorbed history like bubbling thermal water. She drooled streams, and always woke up wet.

Her nature was permissible and migratory, and she fancied herself sociable, daydreaming how it would feel to sit amidst good company and gab, how she would make other corporeal giants laugh and twinkle and desire her, and yet she sat tight on the Bermuda triangle whose edges toilet-ringed her ass, and resisted her jabbing hunger for companionship because her body was a defensive monastery erected to preserve the world's memories, fortified by the enormous walls of her collective flesh, the quadrangular towers of her coral-plaited hair, hemmed in by leagues of salt and water, and open in only one place, the reefy urethra, where her flood-gate was.

She awoke from a gluttonous dream, sensing the holy warriors, hungry pirates, drunken marauders, and tambourine-carrying prophetesses stroking her from the inside; the peppery pressure grew like bubbling urine in the bladder burning, pushing against her titanic abdomen. She opened her barnacle-crusted lids, yawned, and wondered if the alphabet had been changed again.

As she rose out of her stupor, peristaltic waves raged through her taut uterer like mob torches. She felt her uterus pulling her down as if it were trying to take off on its own. She convulsed as something bony and arthritic hobbled through her bladder, giving her the excruci-ating pain of passing stones. She put her palm on her mons Venus and rubbed counterclockwise and cradled her pussy with her tapping, reassuring fingers. Her great body was as always betray-ing her. "Maybe I'm having a body memory," she thought stoically, "or I'm being raped from within."

 

ALAS, ALAS! AMEN! ALLELUIA!

Jonah found no iliac exit. When he came to, he was bloated and drunk. He felt seasick, despite the centuries he'd spent rocked in EHMH, and vomited laboriously, lying on noxious refuge in a dim grotto he'd never seen before. There was little oxygen and he was breathless. All around him he sensed the stifling expansion of irregular and unbearably soft tissue that pressed against his skin, floatable and airy, billowing so tightly that he choked. I shouldn't be here, he thought; forgive me. In the slow detached rhythm of a sleep-walker, Jonah parted the tissue with his hands, ambling in a direction he chose as not worse than any other. He felt like he'd just popped a million brain cells.

He came upon a fungal beauty so harmonious he felt his eyes had opened for the first time. He fought to get hold of himself, regain his cynicism and bitch as usual that there were no angles in EHMH and a man could only take so many curves, globes and bacterial balls before craving a clearcut geometric shape that was more complex than a damn triangle, but his heart was beating too frenetically. He panicked, aching to leave EHMH's inner fields and dive out to his God. "No use rushing fate," he said. He stood still and held his breath until a glandular curtain finally opened under one of EHMH's natural reflexes. He saw: he hadn't even been close to a Uterer. The gloomy Glomerulus loomed mockingly behind him. He was somewhere down by hilly Symphysis Pubis, not far from Vena Cava. Twilight rained in; EHMH had the longest twilight in the history of the world, for her red cells continually sucked up light and reflected it back in the form of a perennial sunset. Jo-nah's defeated gaze cast about for shelter.

Across the artery, Shem, Ham and Japheth were drinking fermented bile outside the Ovary Ark, buckriding their ageold skinny cattle. Senile papa-Noah, still thinking this was the six thousandth year of his life, the second month, the seventeenth day of that month, and God had just shut him in to flood the planet for a year, was yelling from inside the Ark, "It's too wet in here! I won't have God's house turn to falls! Shem, get me a mop! Quit boozing an' whoring! If I drown, there'll be no raven and no olive leaf and no more friggin' fertility!"

Jonah slowly wandered in, dripping like a hair-standing wildcat. The sign over the counter read "Monotheists Only." The Ark crowd beamed their glassy eyes at him and one of the muscular wives said, "Severing a hymen here is an innocuous act, like circumcision." They were serving free horns of kosher Holygen cocktails (200 pg/ml estrogen, 10.1 ng/ml progesterone and a worm), which were not Jonah's idea of a prophet's drink. Every-one was riotously toasting Mid-Cycle Feast. Jonah remembered this was EHMH's ovulatory phase, which explained the mirth in the streets. (Day 14: LH had just induced the final maturation of the follicle ripened by FSH and the expulsion of the Great Egg from EHMH's Ovary.) The ebullient inebriated crowd was watching on EHMH's higher motor screen the EHMH Egg become a corpus luteum (yellow body). As it secreted its first and last progesterone, they all clapped and clicked horns: "...here until the Daughter appear!" The hypothalamic thermostat was registering a 17-a hydroxyprogester-one/estradiol rise, the highest monthly LH peak. For Jonah, fresh from the urine baths, the celebrated Uterus was a depressing, non-aseptic sight. He turned to leave.

As he limped back out into a Luteotytic lane, a woman's cheery voice followed him from inside the Ark, "You'll need an umbrella, Jonah!" He hated EHMH's lack of privacy. Was an old-fashioned desert too much for a seer to ask for? he thought.

Jonah waded inexorably up the Corpus Cavernosum. The dancing automatonic helots of EHMH flocked to him in pandemonium. ("...that mourns in lonely exile....") Their ranks closed like teeth. The red sea of bodies jolting in the eternal twilight interlocked its arms and legs, wheeling pyres and flaming bushes, blood banners and cornified genitals into a human shield.

"To become a crowd is to keep out death, to break off from the crowd is to face dying alone," orated a crimson-lipped redhead flinging her big hair back and drumming her tambourine. A rifle-target was tattooed on her left breast, and she was painting fecal graf-fiti on an ileocecal valve, drinking electrolytes by the gallon. Jonah said simply, "Excuse me, Miss. May I cross?"

But he was trapped. Through the ages, Emmanuellians had grown terribly intimate with each other; drenched, naked and intertwined, they clotted like a scab keeping Jonah from his mark. He bemoaned his God for creating such stereotypical brainwashed masses. Elbowed and kneed, he now floated on with the hardened mob, thinking: "Never pray to a full-gutted God." He knew the crowd would erupt like a boil any moment. "And never pray on a full belly," he added; "Jonah's ABC's of Success." As people slid in and out of each other, the ocean that held them surged backward, pushing Jonah into the lumbosacral door of the Sphincter Bar, while around him the other Emmanuellians dove into lust indiscrimi-nately; "...hearts of all mankind bid our sad divisions," they sang in battle cries. The foreplay was over.

He crashed through the moist door of the Sphincter and picked himself up from the rectal floor. His tongue felt drier than the bottom of a parrot's cage; the last fluid in his mouth had been his own vomit. He asked for some tap rheum at the counter and decided to ride out the Egg Festival in this Bar, recover his instincts and catch EHMH's next peri-staltic contraction. He suspected EHMH was toying with him, for now a familiar cackle echoed through the bar. "He Ho He He!" EHMH's capricious diaphragm was closing off her glotis. The most frightening sound in the universe is a woman's ill-timed laughter, Jonah thought.

The flabby, raven-bearded Chetnik bartender, sucking on a soaked Cuban cigar, ducked out from under the counter holding an old creel full of Muslim scalps pickling in rheum, and smiled. He poured Jonah a bowl. Jonah gulped it down and immediately felt that yes, he would survive the twilight. "You could use a real drink," the Chetnik burped with a swagger, pointing to a shelf of residual rectum alcohols labeled "God's Rack of Poisons." The area was known for its bacteria and punch, and the Sphincter was a popular subter-fuge in EHMH, due to its access to stored gastroileal fecal material and predefecation centers such as the Sigmoid and Levator Ani around the Anal Canal, a nearby scenic promenade sporting EHMH's better eateries.

After swigging a double cecumtini, Jonah wanted something more useful: "What I need is the support of the masses," he slurred; "I can't pull this off alone." He was starting to relax. "Ho-ji ha ha haaaa!" resounded the Colon. EHMH's insides smelled of mischief. "...law, in cloud and majesty and awe," the Chetnik crooned, slicing an indigested tuna from head to spiked tail; its rotting entrails poured out in a viscous rush, splattering the counter with graying heart, gills, liver, green stomach, spotted kidneys. The Chetnik rummaged through for the tiny translucent brains and sucked them into his mouth along with the mu-cousy eyes, then fisted the white flesh. A collarbone slipped off the counter and, at once, the glyceride floor swallowed it. The Chetnik cursed and flipped the rest into his gap-toothed mouth. His fingers dripped, his teeth whistled. An inebriating stench of fetid low water filled the mesenteric and portal veins of the Bar and became one with all skin. Jonah felt a deeper hunger.

Jonah crossed his spindled arms flat on the hot counter and rested his bald ridged head on the pancreatic fat. The sensation of movement never stopped; he felt sure he was still in the cargo skiff bound for Tarshish. Mischief pinched his swollen nasal septum like two unwashed fingers, as EHMH's wetness slinked down Jonah's scalp over his jutting ears, bulbous chin, hefty cheek, protruding Adam's apple, twig shoulders, sunken chest, knobby knuckles, pooled in the depression under his ribcage and fanned out across his hollow belly and bony pelvis onto his dilated member that lay langorously in the peptide heat. He pen-sively sipped his third cecum-tini and whispered between triple diaphramic convulsions, "Howz it possible to be patient in Hell?"

"...Satan's tyranny that trust thy mighty power to...," the Chetnik replied, wolfing down a fondue of proteolytic enzymes. A faucet of laughter streamed from EHMH's walls, nearly drowning Jonah. "I never been good at facin' the inevitable, mate," he blurted out, looking to the fat-bellied Chetnik for a nod of support. But the Chetnik was now watching UberEm, the All-Time News Channel broadcasting live unconscious flashbacks of EHMH's inhabitants as they were spontaneously transmitted to her Central Sulcus (Rolando) through EHMH's Higher Somesthetic area. Gang-raped virgins and gassed refugees screamed transposed over bald decapitating Janissars over roaming SWAT squads over Chinese tortures, witch-burnings, Crusaders, Mongols, Iron Maidens, mission-aries, secret service agents, all shimmering in multi-layered ../../images of pestilence, turmoil, greed and excommunication. The Recovered-Memory Network was EHMH's therapy system. Some Sphincter patrons cried, others nodded or cheered, recollected elaborate combat anecdotes, slapped their thighs, logged in their own suddenly triggered reminiscences, as memory begat memory, and others still droned, "...high, and close the path to misery...," be-cause in EHMH they had all forgotten exactly who their own personal enemies were and yet they remembered everything else.

"We're all Ehmhdamn clones," Jonah chattered in a heady introspective mood, "parasitic fungi. We got no pride..." "The word `life' means `there's no way out,'" smirked the hairy Chetnik in a matter-of-fact monotone, his gaze glued to the slave drivers on screen. "Life's simply expectations," Jonah babbled on; "Whatz your name?" "Ripper Map-pamondo. I used to staple enemy labia together for a living," the Chetnik smacked his salt-caked lips, and the fat on his body quaked. "I can't fathom whose, but I'll know them when I see them, I reckon. I collected them for public works." On screen, dry labia stretched like mile-long paper links.

"Tell you somethin', Reaper, we could skin her from inside. Eat away all the pink flesh until she looks like those skeletal deaths from Mexico, and bolt out," Jonah mumbled. "You want to SKIN GOD? Show a little backbone, for Ehmh-sakes!" the Chetnic sneered. "We could make fishbone scimitars and commit open-heart surgery on her, um, cut straight to the bone, saw through the..," Jonah now argued half-heartedly. "What happened to you, old man, is part of the Plan. Every action and moment is her Plan. Why struggle to escape? It makes no difference. Difference is myth. The freedom to believe is the only freedom. We can't live the things we believe. That's the absurd truth. So show some re-spect. Destiny gets skinned and we're finished. Without her we're homeless, we are back out there drooling and killing. We're her children, man, she'll take care of us, she's the Omne Genius!"

At that, everyone in the Sphincter rose in a chorus line and hollered in angry unison: "...night, and death's dark shadow put to flight...," pointing their fingers and staring Jonah down. He nodded listlessly to the unwelcoming crowd and staggered out, suddenly bur-dened by his serial failures. "A huge price to pay to come to the conclusion that nothing is real!" he hollered back at the closing door. "Everything is a myth, buddy. Anything that's not is unspeakable. Wake up and smell the urine!"

It was about 8881669 in the unpredictable Ehmh Time Zone. Elmighty, the Ehmh-Vein Line with local intravenal service to Coccyx, Kidney, Duodenum, Angina Pectoris, Esophagus and Larynx, squeaked in a running pace in front of him; Jonah jumped onto the first corpuscle, sat in the ergonomic crevice of a red blood cell and swallowed the sweetness of her running biledrops. The Vein rattled with a gaseous whisper. The passengers, sub-dued by their earlier orgies, hummed, "Emmanuelle shall come to thee, O..."

He got off at the Larynx, and immediately stumbled into John the Baptist's floodlit Aryepiglottic workshops. Today's session was titled: "Marvel at the Planning of Her En-trails--Find the Best Place to Sleep; Equip your Home; Bileproof Everything; Maintain the Plumbing, Heating, Cooling systems; Fix Everything that could Possibly Break (incl. the Heart)." The crowd loved it.

The Baptist looked like his clay-colored skin was made of cartilage. He had the toughest gums in EHMH. He was rumored to subsist on gingiva and buccal mucosa alone. He'd just finished his long speech and now was trying to disengage himself from the make-shift thyroid podium that his bony ass was stuck to; he had to pull hard to save himself from becoming part of EHMH, before her glands secreted enough adhesive digestive enzymes to trans-form him into an integral part of her tissue. In EHMH, no one went to waste. To detract attention from his embarrassing near-death struggle to pluck himself from God, John pompously kept the vocal crowd entertained by breaking into a heartfelt falsetto rendition of "...cease, and be thyself our Queen of Peace."

The Larynx was known as EHMH's Philosophers' Walk. The river of Trachea divided it between the False Cord Quarters (ventricular ligament) on the left bank and the True Cord (vocal lig.) on the sophisticated right. Lush heavy shades of scarlet and pre-carious rebounding high-wire steps that created melodious echoes graced its sides. Here the light was a prickling glare.

On the True Cord bank, Jonah watched the sinuous laryngeal floor undulate in tympanitic waves that he found surprisingly arousing. This continuous state of arousal in EHMH was driving Jonah mad because, unlike most Emmanuellians, he was still a virgin; after the evacuation, he thought, after he'd stormed the fortress of EHMH, he might also finally get himself deflowered.

The Baptist finally stepped down from the salivating podium, and Job the Sly jumped on to it, invoking, "Behold the message I bring for your salvation: Do not shun EHMH's oblique garbage dump, the pseudo-organ commonly known as History, even if it is a prison festered with viruses and poisonous gas, for that is where we all must gather and sing and rock until we awaken Her! Do not bileproof, but distend and reclaim! Together we can inspire our Mother to rise and change the world!" "It's called the Second Coming!" someone yelled derisively. "Isn't History where that manic-depressive John the Apostle hides, under the trash?" Jonah challenged Job from the crowd, eager to ride the populist unease.

"EHMH is not an island," Job sputtered back. "She is the strongest and safest police-free homeland in the history of the world. She is the product of history and free of history. The task is best left to official biographers, apostles, vessels, for I have no lan-guage to describe the simple union of opposites that is EHMH: She is rational. Chaotic. Loving. Sadistic. Immune. Vulnerable. Mistress of Fate. Slave of Destiny. Fair yet Prejudiced. Methodical yet Spontaneous. Forgetful yet Omniscient. I've no material reason to lie to you. I've had my full share of beatings in the hard hand of God. Subpoena Heraklitus to testify on my behalf. She is Truth. Lie. Graceful, graceless. I hope you see where I'm going with this. Woman, yet Man."

The True Cord crowd was notoriously tough to impress and Job was booed down before his spidery ass had time to root in EHMH's dura matter. Carotid rocks and fish-bones flew at Job as he slid away from the pendulous podium, still vowing to fulfill his duty.

Jonah grabbed this brief auricular opportunity to run up to the empty swinging podium. He had an idea; it had worked before. "Cast lots!" he shouted with infectious exuberance, reveling in the auspicious deja-vu. "That you may know upon whose account this wet disaster has befallen you!" He grinned ferociously. The crowd waited transfixed, not quite understanding. Jonah's heart pounded impatiently as he tried to explain: "I am an infectious disease in EHMH!" He felt so sure God was on his side of the dice, he went straight to the point, his voice hard: "I AM has sent me to you," he boomed, stealing Moses' best lines, and then pronounced each word intimately: "Just pick me up and cast me into the sea, so that the sea may be calm for you; for I know that this great unjust storm is upon you because of me." It was his only chance. The crowd stared dumbfounded as if he were speaking a dead tongue. "Give it a try," he yelled, resorting to colloquialisms, "what have you got to lose but your wet chains?"

Meanwhile, banging across her windy larynx in shattering explosions, EHMH's ear-piercing timeless laugh boomed southward. She was feeling exuberant again, briefly free.

THE REFRAIN:

Once upon 1450B.C., the splendid Atlantis sank to the bottom of the sea; in 900B.C. the ardently walled Troy fell; in 450BC the marble-bellied Athens fell to the derivative Romans; and on a black Tuesday in 1453 Constantinople, the tear-shaped navel of the world, fell to the sav-age Turk. Every fall, and there were thousands, added an inch or two to her fecund watery flesh until EHMH couldn't bear the gravid scream twisting the world into cataclysmic waves of shame that smelled like burnt cinnamon. She had tired of being a museum and longed to displace the powerful. So she came, riding the white cusp of the millennium, like a curse, and like a virgin bride.

BREAST LESIONS -- EFFECTS OF HISTORIC VIRAL INFECTION ON: A. THE HUMAN BREAST

1. Lactiferous Lobulation: Historical altercation is spread through the interstitial Bay of Pigs lactiferous duct to nipple adecoma, enlarging the Iwo Jima papillomas to Pearl Harboural dimensions. Resulting traumatic fat necrosis does not rule out an isolated malignancy but does facilitate early diagno-sis. This surface altercation is the most common of the three.

2. Schlerosing Adenosis: This is the least known altercation, characterized by intralobular fibrosis and proliferation of the Agincourt ductules. The histic growth may compress the golden yellow Austerlitz lumina, so that they resemble cords of Culloden tissue, a histologic pattern, which mimics Lockerbie carcinoma.

3. Epithelial Hyperplasia: This altercation is characterized by Chickamauga hyperplasia affecting ducts and ductules. It may exist along with other fibrocystic changes but when it occurs is most often the dominant variant. The Guadalcanal ductlining epithelium is doublelayered; now there is Beirut-style growth beyond this. The proliferating stricken epithelium may project or fenestrate into the Gallipoli lumen extensively. This is the only fibrocystic change, which clearly indicates nightly increased offensive Kaiserschlacht carcinoma. Uniform hyperplasia with clear lumina is indicative of intraductal Balaclava carcinoma.

c., atrophic. SYM: Early enlargement of the inflamed organ.

c., biliary. ETIOL: Chronic malignant retention of bile.

c., fatty. C. with fatty infiltration of clotted history cells.

c., hypertrophic. SYM: Hypochondriac fullness. PROG: Incurable.