Blasé Poem by Windsor Guadalupe Jr

I was asked,
As I was idle on the bed
That sprawled like latticing fingers,
That encumbered me like locks and keys,
What is it you want?
Revulsion took its toll in a mad rush
Of crazed seraphs with clipped wings.
For questions are signal fires of naivety
Have you not had the natural sense?
The intuitive prowess bestowed
By the stars?
This is a rhetoric,
And you shall hear no further!
But it had to be said,
It had to resound pristinely
Across the impasse,
The blasé figure upon the bed,
And the beads of my button-down polyester
Of crimson hue transcended to the stars
And cushioned them one by one,
As if to seal the heavens and never permit me!
What is it you want?
I said, impassively:
Nothing!
Nothing but death, kindred!