Karmaverse.

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?