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I was visiting
the Mother of Wolves
in her firelit cave,
Her sons and daughters tugging
and wrestling around,
but the higher penis
Today, was a quietly spoken
Victorian scientist
practising spiritualism
With only three ghosts,
he took me elsewhere, to
Dr. Jekyll’s laboratory
Where intercourse was not only
imminent but eminent too,
and immanent: the cave
Just would not do;
and I felt an invisible flow up
and around my high penis
And the Lady Doctor felt it too,
it was like the pressure of light,
like the chamber
Of a goldleaf electroscope,
crura of the charged instrument
parting legs;
Science was OK as a direct allegory
of the lower penis, rising;
the psychic penis rolling
Clouds of the seminal ectoplasm
risen for consultation,
this was high colloquy
But it was still penis, stiff sage,
winking to his two companions, whispering
of doorlocks
Oily with harmonious toil, true science;
practising spiritualism
with only one ghost.
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