The Ulysses' Sirens had woman face, and wings like the bird.
The circumcised sailors had their phallus burning of sex under the rare noises of the Sun: the sea brought a delicious, warm breeze full of pheromones.
The winged Sirens, they made the hero believe, make the hero believe.
Believe that they were singing over a meadow of summer, while, in reality, they were over a camp full of human bones, white as the semen of the Greek leopard.
And overdried skins of men.The winged Sirens, they made the hero believe, make the hero believe.
Believe that they were singing over a meadow of summer, while, in reality, they were over a camp full of human bones, white as the semen of the Greek leopard.
The hero covered his ears with wax of cachalot's eye; and though he couldn't hear the low-frequency's Sirens sound.
He couldn't help himself watching: and he saw.
When he watched, he saw; he saw the sound: his eyes heard the grass of the meadow of summer growing.
'This, probably must belong to the territory of the reveries, that seldom walked camp' he said to himself
'Dans le domaine du rêve'.
'The field of the bones'.
It was the right moment when Ulysses lost his mind...
Beyond and away; the Sirens were one with the meadow; an one and only shadow over the flat, warm land; inexistent, almost.
.
