You know: poetry slam has been compared to almost everything, has been insulted a bit and hyped a bit, has gone from a niche format in the corner pub to a major event that now fills large halls. And what does the poetry slam actually think about itself? It laughs out loud. He beams and nods and then just carries on as he always has. Because he knows that in the end it's not about numbers and not about ratings, not about big theater and little gloating, not about glitter and ballyhoo, but simply about words and stories. About poets who shout everything out of themselves, who write everything out, who rave and cry, who laugh about all the clever and stupid things they do in all the nights and days. The jury, still randomly and arbitrarily chosen from the audience, then holds up a sign. From 1 to 10, from "What the hell...?" to "I never want to see anything but you again." Wild and full of fluff, brilliant poets and word philistines, everything there, everything as it has always been, because it only promises what it delivers: simply poetry slam, simply the best in the world.