Squat

It's breaking down and spilling out -
crazed arms, and fingers clutching
to hold it guide it stop
the diffusion of the sleepless.
Chemicals beguile 
like brushstrokes on a print,
bring a dullness so profound
it curls up and settles down
like it owns the place. And maybe
it does because anger won't set.
With one eye half open
through its dog mouth:
"You've had the quick and the keen.
Get used to me."