spontaneous poem 4am

Did you hear the one about the Old Man and The Sea? The fish wins.

The wide Sargasso Sea, the sick Picasso pea green urn of urine
from which the great white emerges, purges it's platitudes in vomit of orange;
strange sounds from the next room, Ophelia felt up and marooned,
a symphony of velvet bruises bring Sylvia to God's wound,
a victory for Bovary and her stylish divinity, made for buffoons, moons
moored in Dickinson's floor, all the hash of Coleridge and lock the door,
portend the mainstay of the great and holy words this Country came by,
behest the treasury of the last Mohican, who, from this vantage point
is red all over, and shine it heavenward, as a slate of old gold reflects the sun,
so a buttondown mole hair jacket once owned by Joe LeSeur is never sure
if it's going to fit anyone else as well as she, the savior in the bush league,
Notley ever again, and save a breath for her sons to who like a spotted owl.