Wrath

We read concupiscently
of little women and little men
of entertainment,
great singers
of our littleness
and of the greatness of their pools  
and of their shitty flirtations.
We read of their anxieties, their dark periods,
of the cuckold subtly bent
to a discount psychology,
of how they mess with it with their accountants.
Who cares about the slime
and the jubilation of these unpunished demigods,
of their plastic haloes,
of the navigated sons of bitches,
of the tinkling glamour
and the vermilion colours of their lips,
that hide smiles
winking at the queue on the red carpet.
Fuck off
Then big people
from the small glow of bodies
but from the great glitter of placid mirages
and lovely, die.
Little old world friends die,
that you read on Facebook,
and yes, you grasp the meaning of things
you get dizzy, caught up in the futile whiteness
of the infinite number of universes
with infinite stories, wavering
but proudly resist to the anonymous
sepulchral,
to the slow fading,
like tears in a toxic rain
and dirty with mud
and oil.
This is my world,
theirs is a mirage I hope does not come true,
even if it tempts me.
Here the closing there is not,
Here the closing is the world that will come,
if it will come