Cut off your dick.
Give it to the dog. Use it as a mic at Tuesday karaoke. For your Lionel Richie jam.
Make it your 8:30 morning presentation pointer. The cufflink for your not so black tie affairs.
Stick it in with the pocket pens.
Then. Use your dismembered member to poke a hole. In the vast black curtain of space and time.
So you can go back and erase all the dick pics you attached to your second date requests. Christmas greeting cards. Credit card signatures.
Tell your yesterday self that there are. A lot. A Lot. A LOT. Of lovely bones.
Hammer it. In the younger you’s brain. That a lovely bone.
Is not the pillar. That pins down the fucking center.
Listen. To a single word. Phrase. Gesture. She makes.
Loop it on the screens at football stadiums. Boombox it in a sensory deprivation chamber. Abandon yourself to the desert to hallucinate its source.
Give a doctoral thesis on your findings and translate them into 27 languages.
Use it as code to program fleets of self driving automobiles.
Use it to calculate your exit speed from the orbit of Mars.
Use it as a baseline to power every damn grid.
Stimulate her nipples for ten years.
Transcribe her every pore into braille. Pay for her favorite childhood boy-band to soundtrack your movements.
Swab clouds on your tongue and fingers.
Take a waltz class on her clitoris. Take a samba class on her clitoris. Take a tap class on her clitoris.
Take her clitoris to a hot sulphur spring.
Radio your bulldozers to the G spot. The A spot. The U spot.
Instruct your drivers to just look out for anything to do with most of the alphabet.
And have them construct a township. Construct a city. Construct a nation. Construct a goddamn civilization.
And blow it the fuck up.
In the still aftermath. Take all the quiet breaths from cold mornings. And pack them around her like a compress of moss.
Give yourselves a bit.
Reattach your dick.