And so we proceed away from the city through suburbia.

Ahh! The burbs. There is Crescent View. Seabury Parade. Grove Park. Sunset View. Golden Ridge. Oak Lawn. Lake View. Hillside View. Socially homogeneous. Wouldn’t you say?

Karma picks up the car’s handheld radio speaker and says.

I’m Karma Love Kid and I couldn't give a rat’s arse about your number of likes and your Fakebook followers. I don’t give a fiddle about your fancy designer label footwear. I don’t give a sack of wet socks about your dumb ass device that is smarter than you. I don’t give a dog’s bollocks about where you get your retail therapy nor where you park your insufferable SUV.

I don’t give a flying fuck of a duck about your far flung holidays for no reason but to say you were there. I don’t give a hoot about your higher education nor your yearly net income that should qualify you to scoop dog poop from the street.

I don’t give a toss about your derivatives, stocks, shares and bonds. I don’t give a wet fart about your property folio that will sink into the sea like most of the south of Italy when the next seismic shift comes.

I don’t flipping give a hootenanny about your default on your mortgage and how you now face closure. Welcome to what homelessness really means.

I don’t frigging care about how you waste your time sorting out your recycled rubbish into the green bin, the yellow bin and the blue bin. Just toss your useless corpse into them when the binmen come around. I don’t fecking care a jot about your hopeless pension plan that will never materialise because your state revenue cannot collect to pay you. I don’t give a tinker’s curse about your short term gain in the present with no long term plan for the future because you don’t have one to freaking look forward to.

I don’t give a Kardashion fuck about your trout faced liposuction, to care enough to save you from your demise that you created. I don’t give a fig about the next virulent zombie virus coming out of the permafrost in Siberia because the Russians want to drill for more oil. You deserve it for what you have done. I couldn’t give a monkeys ass about you. YouFeckinEffinBlindinEejit!

Karma hands the mike to Purple.

What should I say?

Whatever comes into your pretty furry head?

Just make it up?

Of course. It’s what you do best.

Purple makes a sound bordering on something between a hiss and a snarling growl.

Wake up suburbia! Come out of your mock tudor, doric pillared porticoes into your tarmacadamed SUV filled driveways. Your twin car park sized garage full of junk with a second fridge the size of a car, stockpiled with tons of pickles, plant-based coffee creamers, oat-based prebiotic pea protein slushies, iced lattes and peanut butter shakes.

Wake up from your self induced dream of futile acquisitions, your quilted bathroom toilet tissue scented with camel cashmere droppings to wipe your hairy ass. You and your hand held electronic bagel slicer that your wife cannot use with her claw like stuck on nails.

You and your milk chocolate covered popcorn popping machine for your blubber faced offspring that float in your outdoor inflated swimming pool like obese baby seals.

Your badly trimmed beard full of bits of avocado and craft beer. Come out in your hairy legged shorts socks and sandals.

We know that you're a software front end back end arse end developer. We know where you work! We are coming to get you! When are you not at work!

It’s Monday morning and the mental effort required to dispel the crushing fact that you have to look forward to more than 60 hours of pure drudgery is inescapable.

We know that you write complex algorithms for traders and brokers for Storgan Manley Bank, who play with them on the stock market but you have no clue nor interest in what they really do with these numbers.

You are not even a little cog on a wheel who is ignorant of the giant machine that is making trillions from squeezing the natural resources out of the earth.

You are more like a speck of dust on a pin head sitting there in your sandals and khaki shorts sipping your latte when the suited bastards may as well be on the top floor rolling children’s skulls back and forth to each other, hooting and high fiving, fist bumping and venting neanderthal grunts, shouting out vacuous corporate slogans.

Some of these words below can actually be heard by the suited vampiric sociopaths in the corporate hushed carpeted elevator, lispingly whispered around the lavish buffet counter.

Gritted through spotless dentured teeth down the cellphone.

What happens here, stays here. Capitalism means we are all better off. It’s a trickle down economy.

Because you’re worth it. Our global consumer will change capitalism - for the better.

Impossible is nothing. Free markets reduce poverty.

Everywhere I want to be. Profit is essential. It is moral.

The only way is up. Free trade is good for the environment.

And when these suited vampiric narcissistic sociopaths, occasionally breeze through your open plan office, you don’t get to see them up close but you can see that they all have the same haircuts and conceited expressions, same pointy shoes that make you wonder if they really have toes.

What you really don’t see is that you are part of the problem too, with your dedicated melon scooper that would be more practical to use as a lobotomising medical instrument on parts of your brain that send you on merciless shopping sprees.

Your chrome plated selfie sticks, your instagrammable vegan fillet steak and your GM free, bio nettle baby food, your sustainable rainforest robbed decking that surrounds your semi detached fake villa, your faux ceramic eucalyptus oil burner (no Koalas were injured sourcing this product) and your portable designer subwoofers.

What are you waiting for?

You don’t need to pack. Forget your suitcase and your passport. Forget the bills, the job and the medical insurance. Forget the mortgage and the pension plan. Forget the house. It’s been devalued. You are in negative equity. Come with us.

Leave right now. It’s the only thing left for you to do.

So, let’s not get stuck on where we’re going. Think of it like this. What are you looking for?

This is the question.

Next time you peruse the revolving bookstand in the airport waiting for your flight. Ask yourself.

What do you want? Where are you going and why?

Purple opens up the glove compartment in the car and reaches in to find a copy of the first edition of the very same staggering work of genius in your hands. It says here on the back cover.

Blurbalicious.

A book good enough to read in the elevator of a burning building or in the backseat of a hijacked car or a derailed speeding train.

A book for homeless lovers in cardboard boxes under motorways who ride trains to stay warm.

A book that makes you throw your mobile phone at your boss and go drinking with winos in a graveyard after a funeral.

A book to read by a pool full of piranhas in Ibiza.

A book to impale journalists with - they give the lie.

The kind of book that opens like a surgeon’s scalpel.

The kind of book that could get you locked up.

A pocket book grenade. Every page a shard of shrapnel that exposes this millennium of lies.

Explosive.

This author writes with dead men’s fingers, spooky action up close.

The very terror of life itself.

Breathe it in and enjoy the abyss at arm’s length.

Worth immolating oneself for. Splendid.

Every suicide bomber’s time killer.

Bound to be read in airports all over the world by top hijackers of every denomination.

Thrilling.

A book written better than a third movie sequel.

The special effects just couldn’t be done.

Xi runs through hoops of fire with a drumbeat in your head.

An earthquake dancing up your spine.

That fills you full of dread and I couldn't care less.

I’m going to wake you up to your life that is a walking sleep.

I’ll make you think…. before you speak.

The universe stops racing away to find its inner core and takes a rest to see if it wanted more. A backward glance on its trajectory showed up a little glitch. I am toying around with the speed, gravity and pitch. Electromagnetic waves are coming from a source disrupting the flight path that set the universe on its course. A trace back to its origins can be found, a blank page that held its breath with a promising sound…and yet the purpose of the endeavour remains unclear. What does the author and the protege hold so dear? A cascade of uncountable mirrors reflecting what one looks at, to step on to a revolving stage. A foreboding question raised. Where do you live? Is it the here and now?

Do you dare to ask why, here and how.

Now, you feel the blood that runs through your veins with a veracity that makes your breath quicken like never before. Listen to the anatomy of an orchestra trained to push the senses to their very limits.

What a piece of work! I am the only one to take the mantle up. A time collecting clock with an arrow of time. KLK. It takes 8 strokes to make the letters. 9 to make the circle complete. 10 to hit the target and the game is on. We are in. We will follow the trajectory of the arrows at intermittent points in our story but meanwhile, on the more earthly realm, our pranxterrorist et al are having fun.

I park my Sherman tank on a police car’s wailing siren, gathering an inner circle of adoring fans as I hand out vanilla ice cream cones to teenagers who want to learn what they were not taught in school. Hopping on each other’s shoulders to get a glimpse of me.

Malcolm Mc Claren rolls out of his grave to savour a whiff of my punk rock wave but I graciously decline and no contract is signed. I am the revival that you have been waiting for.

Vivien Westwood cuts my cloth from stormy cumulus clouds that hover above my head. Drawing them down to her fingertips to weave a shimmering costume around what you most dread. The now.

I position the first arrow on my Time Reversible Recurve Bow. I raise it and draw my cosmic string in one fluid motion back to the anchor point at my lips.

Looking down the spine of the shaft, I dilate one pupil to pull back light from the edge of the expanding universe to pinpoint a time in the past.

I grip my little finger with my thumb and keep my three remaining fingers together. The tension mounting in my body causes thin vapours of smoke to curl up into the air.

I pout my bottom lip out and wait for a Karmasecond. Gathering a deep resonance with every finger that moves towards a crescendo building up a rhythmic deep bass tone, more felt than heard. The Katastrophic Quartet are in tow following Purple Cat’s lead on his baton.

The pressure on my cosmic string grows taut. The target has been chosen. I finger the feathered fletch like a dial to hit the date, a target in past time.

With this bow, I do define my 3 arrows to shape space and time. I will cut through dimensions a celestial art, leaving a trail of havoc in its chart. A shot into my new universe where my story will start.

I am the arrow and the bow. I am the target that I know. I am the speed and the light. I am gravity wrapped up tight, to make a universe of my design. Come with me and make it shine. There is no beginning and there is no end. Right here and now, is the present to amend.

I release the arrow and let it fly. A traversable swirling portal of light opens up from the arrow piercing the fabric of spacetime. My light shoots out. A pinpoint at first, then emanating outwards and inwards in concentric waves of every colour washing over me and you. A rupture in spacetime. A beautiful new tunnel narrows down and wraps itself up, so tightly not even gravity will hold it back. On the redlight shift of the spectrum inviting all to participate in the race through space on her cosmic string, a place and time with an ineffable rhyme

You will feel the blood that runs through your veins with a veracity that makes your breath quicken like never before. Listen to the anatomy of an orchestra trained to push the senses to their very limits.

What a piece of work! I am the only one to take the mantle up. A time collecting clock with an arrow of time. KLK. It takes 8 strokes to make the letters. 9 to make the circle complete. 10 to hit the target and the game is on. We are in. We will follow the trajectory of the arrows at intermittent points in our story but meanwhile, on the more earthly realm, our pranxterrorist et al are having fun.

I park my Sherman tank on a police car’s wailing siren, gathering an inner circle of adoring fans as I hand out vanilla ice cream cones to teenagers who want to learn what they were not taught in school. Hopping on each other’s shoulders to get a glimpse of me.

Malcolm Mc Claren rolls out of his grave to savour a whiff of my punk rock wave but I graciously decline and no contract is signed. I am the revival that you have been waiting for.

Vivien Westwood cuts my cloth from stormy cumulus clouds that hover above my head. Drawing them down to her fingertips to weave a shimmering costume around my body.

I somersault up and down my Sherman tank.

Tongue in cheek at blushing boys so meek.

Street vendors cry out my name and a chorus of a song’s refrain carries over their heads.

I am born out of a black dot. A full stop. The insignificant made paramount.

In between the big bounce and the big squeeze is where I lie. An artful dodger with no singularity, you won’t believe the universes that I can conceive.

My story was born before the ink well was filled before the nib was even sharpened.

This is my moment. Silence for my armour. Nowhere from, to go wherever chaos takes me.

I am the universal orphan coming back home to take my rightful place.

Purple Cat says.

Karma walks a tightrope.

Duality has a sneeze.

I can cross this century into the last like I am floating in the breeze.

I am the abyss that looks into me as it looks into you.

One sky into another. One is afraid of what Xi might do.

Xi dances and swivels. Xi pirouettes and bows.

Drawing every last breath from the excited crowd.

This is the line of illusion.

Oh but there is something here to see. Karma and a Purple Cat playing the Game.

I don’t pretend they’re not me.

So I fashioned a role out of my mind.

Xi is better than a digital toy that you could find.

Coming up through history cleansing every word

Cutting through lies with yer tongue as a sword.

Xi is the spark and the fuse burning up the line.

When Xi gets to her mark it’s revolution time.

Karma makes a ruse and dresses it up to kill.

And what Xi kills is the illusion that who we are is how we live.

How we think is how we live, says Purple Cat

Right on the mark, says Karma.

Rain hits the mountains and falls in great sheets.

Ocean stories born on the wind sucked up from the deepest salt caves of the Atlantic.

Carrying seagulls high over rooftops reeling above drenched umbrellas, battling every corner.

Skittles and pins spat with rain. Then they come around the corner. Just two of them. Defiant and engaged in their immutable dispute. We can hear them above the din of traffic and the consumer driven drive for satisfaction that is never satiated.

The teeming crowds spill along the pavement. Down below us, we can see a city that looks like.......

A forgotten place that once fluttered the feathery wit of Swift who tickled our ribs and made us laugh down to our bones.

I have been collecting stones picked for a pocket to fling at the unsolicited editiator’s window.

Armed with an honest pen, by all I am not schooled in. Such is the loss and so is the gain to blot a page with wisdom from pain. This beggar robed queen will ascertain the highest duty bound, dug down so deep, no one will keep the rafters from being pulled asunder.

I have picked my moment carefully. I have lots of them thanks to my Purple cat.

I wear these great big fuck off boots and throw a look up and down the street, sweeping down to the river’s particular stink. And now for an aside, as they say, or a soliloquy. I strut around the turret and hop onto the barrel of my tank which transforms beneath me into a majestic sea faring galleon.

This is literature at a spooky distance. Listen to Purple Cat make yer introduction.

To all those cross dressing pirates, yemales, zimales and gender outlaws who first ventured out over uncharted seas so long ago, who mapped the world that we now know. This course that we take with every page that turns, would be impossible without them.

For those who threw more than caution to the wind as they set sail whether it was a flimsy raft bound foolishly together with rope or a tarred canoe to get beyond the surging waves that buffered them back towards land.

Was it a stolen mighty frigate that furrowed a prow head first? Did Xi leave a trail in yer wake with bravery and bawdy songs? Some sailors set out with dubious intent or were marshalled by a monarch to heap up gold. Some had a messianic vision to spread the word of their gods. Some with nothing more than mercantile ambition and some who simply wanted to be free of the state and its mindless bureaucracy.

All this, even if it was unknown to them was done in yer name.

The formidable Karma Love and yer infinite fame.

Karma is our true patron. Xi is our protector of good fortune, our reckless troubadour, our formidable plunderer and guide through peril and grave doubt. And when despair and certain death is as palpable as the salt air on our skin. Xi is right by our side.

Yer figure is more than a fetish of unrequited pleasures or longing for true love left at home alone. Yes, Xi struts and bays at us to gather our senses to yer cause. Yes, Xi is buxom and lithe and flirts with our desires, yer chin held high and lofty, driving us on to higher highs.

Is it the waves around us that delineate yer true form or is it yer command of us and the vessel upon which we are now born?

Karma brings the hijacked car screeching to a halt outside the main entrance of the doors to the airport’s departure lounge.

Torch it Purple! commands Karma.

Purple flicks his tail and the car bursts into flames as they somersault inside the building.

Do we have enough time ? says Purple cat.

Yes we do. But we are going to make some or should I say take some.

Of course. Think of a speed...anything above 300,000 kilometres per second.

Yes.

Divide by the speed of light.

OK.

Square it.

Right.

Subtract from 1.

Yes.

Take the square root.

Great.

Time slows down enough for us to steal some.

Benedicat Maledicat.

The best dressed purple cat.

Who writes a line without a blot. And scarce could even give a jot

For manifold duplicity and bestial greed.

He’s the cat with the claw. He’s got the pen for the deed.

A voice crackled in the air.

Flight KLK is now boarding. Would passengers please make their way to boarding Gate……

The announcement is drowned out by shrieks and whoops of delight when old friends meet up together again.

Among the disorientated passengers and bored ground staff appear four incongruous individuals. They truly look like they are from out of this world (one of them is not actually from planet earth) and they are old friends of Karma and Purple.

Yer band of outlaws and back up musicians

The Katastrophic Quartet. Hector, Bob,Tina and Eddie.

Karma says, What a wonderful surprise. You thundering bunch of misfits. How come you are all here?

Well, if it isn’t the Kappa Lambda herself, murmurs Tina Wayton. As you can see, we got the band back together.

Back together. But how? Why here? And how did you find us? Chimed Karma and Purple in unison

It’s not hard to find a girl like you, who leaves such a trail of destruction in her wake. says Tina.

The boys nod their heads ruefully.

Amare Nina, murmurs Beserker Bob as he stoops to kiss her outstretched hand.

Hey Babelicious, says. Hector Babenco with a flourish of his pirate’s hat.

Eddie the Beagle waves at them like a school boy and somehow manages not to poke himself in the eye.

And the little furry Purple One! All four of them scoop up Purple Cat to give him little tugs on his chin and ruffle his ears which makes him blush like a ruby stone.

Karma Love Kid and the Katastrophic Quartet.

The band's line up is an odd bunch of individuals; on drums we have Beserker Bob, a giant arachnapulpotot from the remote planet, Pulpotonia. A lumbering rocky sphere that spins lazily on the outer edges of the Milky Way. Karma had sprung him from his last tenure on a prison colony on Pulpotonia for exploding a black hole.

Bob is infamous for his penchant for explosive devices which increase in scale when he joined the band as their fame grew.

It got to the point where Beserker Bob’s dynamite antics could not be tolerated at the same performance as the rest of the band so, not wanting to lose their inimitable sound, a deafening thunderous backbeat, it was agreed that Bob could safely play at a reasonable distance (a nearby planet or satellite) from the chosen venue.

Bob’s origins are esteemed indeed, half octopus half spider crab, it is hard to tell how many appendages he really has, but play he really can, knocking out or should we say detonating, what the listener might describe as witnessing the collapse of a neutron star. For all the macho posturing and fierce outward appearance when Bob is away from his kit, he is the shy retiring type who shuns the groupie hysteria that follows the band.

Hector Babenco looks like a pirate, smells like a pirate and plays guitar like one. Here we have all the gesturing, grimacing, mocking and sneering send up of the ultimate rock god. He makes Rich Kithards look like a bobby socked mall princess on a shopping spree. Hector goes for the layered look; billowing scarves, countless bracelets, bangles, baubles and beads.

Bedecked in this silken finery, he struts the stage like a maniac on hot coals to such a degree, one can discern the sulphuric fumes that emanate from him and in between numbers he will, in a matter of seconds reappear in a new guise causing the female members of the audience to wet their silken panties and swoon deliriously.

An elegant Lemmy from Motorhead crossed with a fourteened fingered Shimmy Gendrix. Hector plays a double necked Dean Razorback Explosive Electric Guitar, the fretboard and head morphing into different animal shapes: snakes, lizards and goats that mimic his contorted face pulling, as Hector strains himself effortlessly.

He also provides backing vocals but saying that belies his true talent as a falsetto that shatters three inch thick glass.

The monolithic amps that stand behind Hector are lowered onto the stage by enormous cranes and he loves to be whisked up to the top of them on what looks like a fire breathing bat.

On bass guitar we have Tina Wayton. Tina is a big girl. There is an exceeding amount of her…well let’s be plain. She has the kind of figure that draws exaggerated curves in between her curves. She bobbles, topples and jiggles her ample flesh in mesmeric fashion.

Journalists always fail to capture her girth when they resort to the word curvaceous but in a one to one encounter in the flesh, she overwhelms you, not by her sheer size but by her ineluctable charm.

Every pore is devoted to the exaltation and cheeky sighs that envelope you in a Johnson baby powder cloud of innocence and fun.

Blond and pig tailed, up turned pierced nose, dog collared and heavily studded lingerie, ripped tights squeezed into 28 holed silver Doc Martens. Tina doesn’t have to move an inch to hold your attention but on occasion she will suddenly do her famous signature dance that resembles a gecko on very hot sand in the Sahara desert.

Eddie the Beagle is part roadie, part sound system engineer/ lighting technician/ catering manager/ bouncer/ occasional tambourine player but mainly roadie because that’s what Eddie looks like. A scruffy roadie. Competent in every conceivable skill in his profession but outwardly he gives one the impression that he can not only find his boots first thing in the morning but would be challenged to lace them up in some manner that would avert a tumble to the ground busting his button canine nose.

One would hesitate to leave Eddie in charge of a clutch of chickens. Whether this was artifice on Eddie’s part in an effort to beguile you with his innocence is never clear but when his moment comes to show his true worth he will astound you with his awesome technical expertise.

Karma has some plans for the new tour.

Playing in the round for an audience has always been a most satisfying experience because of such high visibility with the audience. It crosses over the fourth wall where both performers and audience lose their egos.

Hector, you might find that last bit ….a bit challenging,

So both parties reach a transcendent plateau of unity and bliss, says Purple

Similar to that 360 degree tour those Irish guys did says Eddie.

So, let’s take this concept to the next logical level. We will perform on a stage in space orbiting the earth.

Eddie can do it. Can’t you Eddie?

Well, I guess I could give it a go guys, says Eddie.

Karma love kid and Purple Cat pass through the sliding doors and up the escalator through heavily armed security, magnetic and laser sensors and electronic digital optical devices.

Past the cameras and with a stealth of silence sucked in for a nano second, they approach the Immigration desk for an amusing diversion. Karma gave a shrug of her collarbone and the band sailed on towards the boarding gate.

You guys wait up ahead and I’ll beam you on board when we get through this charade.

Leave right now. It’s the only thing left for you to do.

So, let’s not get stuck on where we’re going. Think of it like this. What are you looking for?

This is the question.

Next time you peruse the revolving bookstand in the airport waiting for your flight. Ask yourself.

What do you want? Where are you going and why?

Purple opens up the glove compartment in the car and reaches in to find a copy of the first edition of the very same staggering work of genius in your hands. It says here on the back cover.

Blurbalicious.

A book good enough to read in the elevator of a burning building or in the backseat of a hijacked car or a derailed speeding train.

A book for homeless lovers in cardboard boxes under motorways who ride trains to stay warm.

A book that makes you throw your mobile phone at your boss and go drinking with winos in a graveyard after a funeral.

A book to read by a pool full of piranhas in Ibiza.

A book to impale journalists with - they give the lie.

The kind of book that opens like a surgeon’s scalpel.

The kind of book that could get you locked up.

A pocket book grenade. Every page a shard of shrapnel that exposes this millennium of lies.

Explosive.

This author writes with dead men’s fingers, spooky action up close.

The very terror of life itself.

Breathe it in and enjoy the abyss at arm’s length.

Worth immolating oneself for. Splendid.

Every suicide bomber’s time killer. Bound to be read in airports all over the world by top hijackers of every denomination.

Thrilling.

A book written better than a third movie sequel.

The special effects just couldn’t be done.

Xi runs through hoops of fire with a drumbeat in your head.

An earthquake dancing up your spine.

That fills you full of dread and I couldn't care less.

I’m going to wake you up to your life that is a walking sleep.

I’ll make you think…. before you speak.

Will the lack of linear narratives pose a challenge? asks Purple

Not in the least. Who the hell lives in a linear time frame these days says Karma.

You might see yer in the fluorescent light of underground car parks holding her quarter. Humming in the shadows. Feeling up the clock for extra time and when Xi wants to step out in style. She hits the shopping malls. Later we’ll visit the Dubai shopping mall!

A personal favourite.

The light is just purrfect says Purple cat.

All shopping malls are similar. It's the light that is the same. Blank and white. Nothing escapes the glare.

There are no shadows. No room for ambiguities.

Wasted time just hangs there in abundance and lots of people to waste it.

A little bit like that Swedish catalogue. Follow the arrow.

Fill the trolley.

Readymade family friendly nuclear fallout shelters with shelves for your shoes.

Pipe muzak appeals to my infinite sense of humour.

It makes me very giddy to think about how many people there are in the world, walking around palaces of glass and plastic junk humming the Girl from Ipanema. Target rich. Mmmm. Yum!

Vanity comes high on my list of victims.

Car showrooms. Purple cat sharpens his claws on a BMW. What a treat!

He breaks off every emblem and Karma love wears them wrapped around her waist as a customised At the airport a voice crackles in the air . "Karma Love Air flight is now……"

I am Karma Love Kid and I couldn’t care less.

I’m going to create a stir. I’m going to make a fine mess.

What I am about to do is what you’ll never guess.

I’m going to jump on you when time slips through every shopping mall

with my Purple Cat who walks by himself.

I’m dangerous in front of mirrors. My light reflects off everything.

On a good day if I feel like it, you can catch a glimpse of me.

A split second white silent eye blinks back at you squinting in the sun.

You’ll turn your head and look twice but you won’t see anything except a flash of light.

Crossing the street can be tricky if you bump into me.

I swivel signposts just for fun.

Traffic lights change for no apparent reason.

Brakes fail and cars crash in my wake as I turn a corner.

Suspension bridges heave and creak under my dancing feet, snapping cables in groans and squeals. Drivers abandon their cars and scratch their heads, bewildered by the fact that a shopping trip will only ever be a list, on a crumpled piece of paper in a back pocket. Fire hydrants pop their valves as I pass and shoot rainbows of water into the air for all the kids to play in.

The pavement beneath my feet erupts into a river of marscapone rippling with each step I take as Purple Cat surfs along side me. Christ the Redeemer in Rio De Janeiro starts to do the Boogaloo. On Mount Rushmore USA. The faces of Presidents, Washington, Jefferson, Lincoln and Roosevelt come alive and bellow out a barbershop version of the chorus from We gotta get out of this place. The Statue of Liberty offers me her torch and breaks out into a shimmy.

Rodin’s thinker in Paris stands up and yells out, I doubt therefore I think I am and stomps off for a glass of absinthe. In Sichuan, China, the Leshan Giant Buddha stands up to reach 10 stories high and marches off to Beijing to give the high up bastards a piece of her mind about what they are doing in Tibet. Purple Cat clicks a claw and the Sphinx rises up in awe shaking off all the dust of thousands of years to stretch and arch its back

I release all of the animals from the Zoo. I quickly teach many of the primates how to unscrew the bolts of their cages and by their own ingenuity close the gates behind them so that no one would immediately notice their foray into the local community and they follow my Purple Cat licking his fur into violet flames that leave trails of sparks in the air.

You’ll meet giraffes headbutting traffic lights. Chimpanzees clamouring over car windscreens hooting and screaming at the occupants. Some of our escapees gain even wider notoriety when I give them a voice of their own on a social platform. Solly and Slippy, the Sulawesi crested macaques become quite a hit with millions of online supporters calling for their right to freedom. Booking restaurant tables for a candlelit romantic vegetarian dinner. Ordering online take aways of a Plantain Bean stew for two.

And as for Lars, Lucy, Loony and Luka the runaway long tailed Lemurs stealing smartphones, tripping up postal workers on their rounds, boarding trams all over the city, on their illicit sightseeing tour to pilfer from the grocery stalls, raid the popcorn machines in cinemas and lock pick mopeds to race to the outdoor terraces to have food fights. What dexterous mischievous creatures. You won’t believe the fun they have with a Fettuccine Alfredo

Naturally we head towards the shopping mall. Cheering on the rhinos causing a terrible ruckus in a carpark jousting with SUVs. Inside mindless shoppers pause mid-stride, their faces frozen in expressions of surprise and confusion as the world around them disintegrates into a pantomime of grotesque proportions. The digital billboards with pouting trout faced models transform into winking hairy baboons on high heels.

The blank faced mannequins come alive smashing the window panes and assemble together to perform sidesplitting disco dance routines under shimmering glitter balls. Any of the security staff who approach them to halt this madness are simply tapped on the shoulder and join in step to the rhythm.

Time itself bends to my will. I am a god who is becoming. I am the becoming of a god. The emergence of my shape is you. You are the emergence of my shape. I am going to give you a voice to sing . Tumble down sceptre and crown. I am a second that can stretch into an eternity, and a minute can vanish in a blink. The clocks in all the shopping malls spin wildly, twisting their hands in a blur as they try to keep up with me and the chaos that I bring. I am a kind of prankster. A pranxtorrist! An impish sprite in the machine of this superficial world that humans have created.

My presence is a glitch. A digital fracture in the fabric of the little ones and zeroed superhighway to nowhere. I am the blip that makes you lag and crash and freeze and smash.

I am your black screen of death. When night falls, the city becomes my little playground. I make streetlights flicker and die as I pass, plunging the world into further darkness as I laugh. The moonlight sings with me and David Bowie dancing tight together.

We can feel the weakening pulse of the city, the heartbeat of its inhabitants fluttering in their troublesome sleep with promises they know they cannot keep.

But there are moments when I am more than a mere trickster. In the quiet hours before dawn, when the world is still and the air is thick with the expectations of my new day. I feel something deep within me. A yearning for something more, something tangible. I reach out my fingers brushing against the edge of dawn and I know a great reckoning is going to come.

For now, I am content to wander, to play my games and weave the web for some fun.

I walk right in through the out door as a waiter drops a tray in disbelief. An elevator comes to a grinding halt. A lost winning lottery ticket falls to my dancing feet.I hang out in airports, train stations, bus terminals, shopping malls, traffic jams and car parks. Anywhere that most deadly flaw in humanity can be found.

Time wasting.

I play with all your clocks and write poems on your subway walls.

The sound that makes the silence makes the sound that makes the silence makes the sound that makes the silence before the sound.

I busk in a U-Bahn in Berlin and jump turnstiles and trams in Antwerp.

I race through Plaza Catalunya in Barcelona and tap time in the metro of Paris.

I’m in New York, San Diego, Bahrain, Dublin, Bangkok, Tokyo, Warsaw, Budapest.

Threading different timelines from my Purple Cat’s tail of light, at the same time.

Squeezing it all into a ball into his clock for later. A time collecting clock.

I run through a tunnel under the Scheldt river singing - Silence is nothing if not listened to!

I freak out stoned teenage tourists in Schiphol goofing off on sweet pastries like fat insects. Wreaking heads and blowing minds.

Whispering a little rhyme.

It's no fun on the Autobahn.

Why travel in time when you can travel in light.

And what is the only thing that is faster than light?

My thoughts. I am building neural pathways in your mind as you read these words.

So the banished have returned. Well, my friends of love who ran from lust, it is a pity that your God is dust.

Now you must take charge of your own fate.

Do not forget this one mistake.

See what a joy it is to turn around naked whole and satiated.

A joy as old as suffering.

Look across this new earth.

It is ours to make.

.

The where and the when was something you could not know

The pursuit of knowledge that you must now forgo

For here in the present is everything we can be

Stop. Silence.

Wait for the right words to see

Let down all your conceit and I will show you mine

Where we will find ourselves is a totally different rhyme

A universe filled of our own earthly delight

A mind that has set it sights on immortality and its right

Words spring from quiet moments waiting to be heard

Sharpening the edge of sounds bubbling under

Who wants to be there?

Clamouring for their place to be born.

Forming out of the womb of my mind that must discern and explore.

This sculpture of my pen sharpened yet once again, must wait

For the empty skies between stars that have yet to shine

This new earth turns and my sun comes up for me

Stars will hide until I need them to see

A voice sings from my sleepy pillow as clouds race across the sky

Fingers pluck out a tune from a guitar made out of bone

A flashing insight that even God does not own

I blink. I step

Here is my arrow and my bow, shot across the edge of knowing and unknown

A new kind of alphabet

A birth without pain, again and again the wind and the rain

My life is just a refrain from a Hopkin’s poem

Then the eye of the universe opens up to me and asks me what I can really see

Atoms bouncing around with a certain aplomb. They are all mine.

Back on board and heading earthwards the crew see an orbiting space station through the cockpit window.

Look at the size of it! gasps Purple.

How many astronauts does it have on board?” asks Tina.

Oh just four and they are not exactly astronauts. says Karma.

Who are they ? asks Hector.

Their names will sound quite familiar to you. says Karma.

Gill Bates. Brick Ranson. Beff Jezos and of course Zark Muckerberg.

It’s the billionaires space station! cries Bob.

Little do they know that they are going to orbit the earth in perpetuity!” Karma says gleefully.

How come?asks Hector.

Let’s just say that Mother Nature decided her future would be more certain without them trashing the planet.

Oh, can we tap in and listen to them! asks Tina.

This is one vehicle we are definitely not going to board. says Hector

But just for our amusement Yes we surely can listen in.

Eddie Says Karma with a knowing glance.

Yes Eddie can do it. says Eddie.

Ssszzzzzzzh! Beep…. bumping into me. Can’t you keep your distance?

G.B Gosh! Space is so…...big!

B.R Well of course it is you thundering v - necked genius

B. J It’s not nearly as big as I thought it would be.

G.B That simply underlines your lack of imagination but then again….what would you know...you’re just a delivery boy.

Z.M Delivery boy.

B.R Can you come up with a sentence of your own Captain Zark.. without imitating me… something original?

Z.M Yes. Original.

G.B So much space. Who would have thought that one day my ego would be surpassed in its magnitude. I mean it makes my head hurt.

B.R I am not a sadist.. But I hope it does.

B.J My cranium feels wafer thin.

B.R That’s because it is. Bozo. You are so aptly named. Did you pick your name off a sweet wrapper? Well, considering the combined size of your egos it’s a miracle that they fit into this space station.at all.

G.B Perhaps it has something to do with zero gravity. Our egos have been lightened.

B.J So you mean that when we get back to earth we’ll have pumpkin sized heads?

G.B Let’s hope that pumpkins are out of season when we do. And at all cost avoid returning to earth for Halloween. I don’t want end up gouged out by some ambidextrous 11 year old and dumped on the front porch with burning candles in my eye sockets.

B.R Not a becoming end for a billionaire.. No

B.J Guys I’m starving. Who is up for a pizza? I’ve a crew of 1, 298 000 staff down there working 24/7 for peanuts and they appreciate the fact that their efforts have actually contributed to shooting my ass into space.

B.R My God. Think of the amount of fuel it took to haul your buttocks off the earth and defy gravity.

Z.M Defy gravity!

G.B You’ve been defying lots of things lately haven’t you.

B.R Business acumen, discretion, modesty. To name but a few.

B.J It’s the money! It does terrible things to you. I’d give it all away tomorrow if….

B.R If what Bozo?

G.B I once had this crazy idea to make a laptop available to every child on the planet but

eventually it dawned on me there are no wireless connections in places like Mali.

B.J People in Mali need a social platform so when they walk 10 kms to fetch water they can take a selfie and stay connected with each other.

Z.M I love connecting people.” I want the whole world to be connected...like they are holding hands remotely.

B.R It’s perverse. You sound like some awful soft drinks TV ad from 70’s

Z.M Everyone holding hands remotely. It’s beautiful.

G.B Ugggh! But a lot of people down there don’t even wash their hands.

B.J I can deliver hand sanitizer anywhere…. except Africa.

G.B I wash my hands a 1000 times a day. It’s not O.C.D. It's just that my research team have informed me that zoonotic microbes are airborne and can enter your body through you pores travelling straight to the brain and proceed to act like Ibola.

B.R Sounds like they already have!

Z.M Ha! Ha! They already have!

G.M Gosh.It is surely the end of human civilization.

B.J No it’s not. We’ll simply relocate.

B.R “ To where?

Z.M “ Yes! To where?

B.J “ Well I have been tinkering around with an idea…

B.R “ Uh Oh! Once you hear Bozo say...tinker around you know it means messing around with Mother Nature.

B.J “ Yes I know it’s ambitious but we can’t get very far in space so let’s engineer a new planet close by and launch a shuttle bus of the best and brightest”

B.R Whoa! Wait a second. You’re going to terraform a new planet?

Z.M Terraform!

G.B What are you going to call your little new planet?

B.J I was thinking about something along the lines of Planet B

B.R How original. We can only guess what the B stands for!

Z.M Yeah! Original!

B.R I can just imagine the flow of communication. Earth to Planet B. Come in Planet B!

B.J Planet B over

B.R What are your favourite pizza toppings over?

Z.M Pizza toppings!

G.B You know what Brick. You have great teeth and hair for a man of your age. Where did you get them?

B.R Well. I know this very talented lady on Kensington High street. She has her own private clinic. She does microscopic hair implants for every single follicle on your head. It’s amazing how she does it.

Z.M Amazing.

B.R I’m out cold of course throughout the whole procedure but rumour has it, that she employs Norkean soldiers the size of an ink dot with atomic precision.

Z.M “ Atomic

G.B And the teeth?

B.R Oh they are just refashioned white Lego bricks. Really tough though. I go through a kilo of unshelled walnuts for breakfast.

B.J How much?

B.R An undisclosed sum of…. 250 thousand dollars.

G.B Gosh! So you spent as much on cosmetic surgery as it costs to travel into space!

B.R Relatively speaking. Yes. But I’ve got billionaire friends who pay their staff on an annual basis the same amount for performing acts of personal hygiene.

G.B Ugggh You mean down there...in the swimming costume department?

B.R God you are such a prude. You sound like a quaker.

G.B I don’t go anymore. Well I do go...I mean only ones...not twos

Z.M You don’t go?

B.R He doesn’t go for a pooh!

Z. M He said Pooh!

B.R What do you mean you don’t go. Everyone goes. It’s a biological necessity. Even for billionaires.

G.B Well, you see I have got this device. It’s called a Cesarean colonic waste disposal valve just under my bellybutton.

Z.M Bellybutton

G.B It collects, hermetically seals and perfumes in a customised coated design of my fa..fa ..fac…. Face. Faeces.

B.R Your pooh!

B.J What’s your design cover for your sealed packet of pooh!

G.B A baby panda

Z.M Baby panda…...you gotta be kidd……… Shhhzzzzzzzz! Beep!

Karma makes a deal with the Billionaires stuck in space. The deal is very simple in its premise. When she contacted them and revealed the true nature of their predicament on what they understood about their holiday.

You may return to earth on one condition. Transfer all your assets to me.

Zap! .... Change the channel. This is Radio Karma Love! Broadcasting to you from the KLK orbiting space station in the stratospheric neighbourhood right above you, wherever you are! You can pick up my signal and tune into the retro techno jungle acid jazz fused with a hippy hop house deep groove hard core metal house chilled blues trippy ambient dance tunes in a RockaBilly dance hall shoes superstar D. Js take the dues sampled by auto-matons giving me the blues with baseball caps on backwards singing off key and talking big with the G who lip sync bad dance routines on T.V.

So let’s kick off the show for all you planet earth hip swinging cats down there with The Katastrophic Quartet’s cover of Sing Krimson’s 21 st Century Schizoid Man.

The sun has just risen over your horizon and no better way to start your day than with Tina Weymouth on bass. Hector Babenco on lead guitar. Beserker Bob on drums and Eddie the Beagle on his tromberbone.

And if this little number doesn’t get you out of your bed you may as well be pronounced already dead. Stay tuned earthlings and we will follow up with the morning hour of Power when our lines are open to take your calls. But without further ado let me drop the needle and stir the stew…

Eggs and ham, a breakfast jam

Thunderclap pancake, sizzling pan.

Keep the mice out, if you can,

Karma loves breakfast in Japan.

Polar cap coffee, honey bears too,

Google yourself, if you're a fool.

Don't skip the first meal of the day,

Karma loves breakfast in Bombay.

On the roller coaster, take a ride,

Slip on your slippers, don't be shy.

Wiggle with joy. Don’t act cool.

Karma loves breakfast in Istanbul.

One scoop of ice cream, oh, pretty please,

Mama said, Yes Sir, just a squeeze.

Doorbell's ringing, not the police,

Karma loves breakfast in Belize.

Karma brings the hijacked car screeching to a halt outside the main entrance of the doors to the airport’s departure lounge.

Torch it Purple! commands Karma.

Purple flicks his tail and the car bursts into flames as they somersault inside the building.

Do we have enough time ?” says Purple cat.

Yes we do. But we are going to make some or should I say take some.

I release the arrow and let it fly. A traversable swirling portal of light opens up from the arrow piercing the fabric of spacetime. My light shoots out. A pinpoint at first, then emanating outwards and inwards in concentric waves of every colour washing over me and you. A rupture in spacetime. A beautiful new tunnel narrows down and wraps itself up, so tightly not even gravity will hold it back. On the redlight shift of the spectrum inviting all to participate in the race through space on her cosmic string, a place and time with an ineffable rhyme

You will feel the blood that runs through your veins with a veracity that makes your breath quicken like never before. Listen to the anatomy of an orchestra trained to push the senses to their very limits.

What a piece of work! I am the only one to take the mantle up. A time collecting clock with an arrow of time. KLK. It takes 8 strokes to make the letters. 9 to make the circle complete. 10 to hit the target and the game is on. We are in. We will follow the trajectory of the arrows at intermittent points in our story but meanwhile, on the more earthly realm, our pranxterrorist et al are having fun.

I park my Sherman tank on a police car’s wailing siren, gathering an inner circle of adoring fans as I hand out vanilla ice cream cones to teenagers who want to learn what they were not taught in school. Hopping on each other’s shoulders to get a glimpse of me.

Malcolm Mc Claren rolls out of his grave to savour a whiff of my punk rock wave but I graciously decline and no contract is signed. I am the revival that you have been waiting for.

Vivien Westwood cuts my cloth from stormy cumulus clouds that hover above my head. Drawing them down to her fingertips to weave a shimmering costume around my body.

I somersault up and down my Sherman tank.

Tongue in cheek at blushing boys so meek.

Street vendors cry out my name and a chorus of a song’s refrain carries over their heads.

I am born out of a black dot. A full stop. The insignificant made paramount.

In between the big bounce and the big squeeze is where I lie. An artful dodger with no singularity, you won’t believe the universes that I can conceive.

My story was born before the ink well was filled before the nib was even sharpened.

This is my moment. Silence for my armour. Nowhere from, to go wherever chaos takes me.

I am the universal orphan coming back home to take my rightful place.

Purple Cat says.

Karma walks a tightrope.

Duality has a sneeze.

I can cross this century into the last like I am floating in the breeze.

I am the abyss that looks into me as it looks into you.

One sky into another. One is afraid of what Xi might do.

Xi dances and swivels. Xi pirouettes and bows.

Drawing every last breath from the excited crowd.

This is the line of illusion.

Oh but there is something here to see. Karma and a Purple Cat playing the Game.

I don’t pretend they’re not me.

So I fashioned a role out of my mind.

Xi is better than a digital toy that you could find.

Coming up through history cleansing every word

Cutting through lies with yer tongue as a sword.

Xi is the spark and the fuse burning up the line.

When Xi gets to her mark it’s revolution time.

Karma makes a ruse and dresses it up to kill.

And what Xi kills is the illusion that who we are is how we live.

How we think is how we live, says Purple Cat

Right on the mark, says Karma.