smoke detectors always make it harder to orgasm. they hover in assumption, blinking red light. is it on or off? is my life in danger? if i touch it will i be electrocuted? i try to concentrate on something else. i'm alone. my body is an ice cube melting on a sidewalk, slowly becoming water, reaching out towards ants, towards the cracks in the pavement. disintegrating. evaporating. the smoke detector inhibits my interest in mating and curbs the potency of my semen.
i am no longer a person. i am an organism defenseless against microwave ovens, televisions, all household appliances. i am forced to focus extra hard on breathing. when i lay on my back I am overcome by anxiety. i sleep upright, sweating, staring at the smoke detector. my abdomen atrophies and my pelvis swings forward, leaving a coagulated hump in my spine. my bones grow soft and i become depressed. something outside my body has pressed the mute button on my soul. i wish ran on battery power. i wish i could change my batteries whenever i feel dead. i wish i could grow new organs and sell my old ones before cancer develops inside them.
i sit on my hands and look at the smoke detector, feeling neutered and diluted. i think something about carbon monoxide. i shiver. i cough-up the blood of an insect and choke on piece of wing. my lungs are slender hives of bees. my ribcage drips with stale honey. bees fly in and out of my rectum as they please. i think something about masturbating. i blush. my flesh is cystic and cold to the touch. the quality of the air declines rapidly, clouding my vision gradually and filling with smoke.
