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Leaping Puma

no party

Brand new poem. I read this last night at New Word Order at Café Mano, Skalitzer Straße.

p.s. If news of my not-nettedness has actually not reached you yet, I'm currently netless at home because I moved. This is the universe calling: Get Outta tha House :P Other than that, the new apartment is absolutely awesome.


no party

so you're relaxing poolside with a few joints and lines and other bits of geometry, when some wiseass says:
let's have a messiah.

never mind the streets of mexico city littered with dried messiahs.
no, at this point in the evening, it's Always A Good Idea to have one,
no matter how annoying they are. people always forget
the messiah is the guy whose cellphone plays Karen Carpenter ringtones in the subway
where there is no signal.
and while you're sitting there smelling fried freedom and the nobody odor of feral straphangers,
he'll get all yap-happy with some dude named Ezekiel
about invisible burning lines in the sky, blue arms and sacred dismemberment,
and catering fish and loaves to thousands from a motorised hot dog chariot.

suppose they gave a messiah, and nobody came?
being the messiah means no joints no lines no party
there is no poolside when you can walk on water.
to ride this ride,
you should be taller than this question:
how to get killed without winding up dead.
99.9999% of the answers are wrong
and the fraction of the one who doesn't want to be the one
knows the best answer is nothing.


The first line is the bomb.
Danke! p.s.: YOU have HARRIET THE SPY as your avatar, do you not?!?! OMG I love(d) that book so hard...