If my bones were flush as fuck with those of others
Lined so neatly in the walls of Parisian dark places
Well, I'd laugh
My skull grating lightly against another

And to be buried standing up, with my bones at right angles
I guess it's better than
Those dream babies I imagined last night
All coddled in dirt and butcher's paper
Lining the stones of our closed-off fireplace
And making that earthy, strange smell of sad flesh.

If our house is built on weird visions
Then let it fucking thrive