Dreaming

We are already dead
or maybe just asleep
while the car keeps moving
into the unforgiving black
and the blank faces are all armed
and shooting into crowds
because culture is oppressive
and the webs are strung by people
sticky lines trailing out of their fingers
and their bloated abdomens
all the poets are murderers
and so are the singers
and so are the playwrights
and so are you
and so are we
this world is a coffin
sometimes
and we are dreaming in it