Better that you look up the poetic works of Gerard Manley Hopkins and enjoy his creative vision and mastery.

BITS OF SHIT By Hullick There’s a pencil case spewing its bits lying on some other shit: I think that shit there was a pen once before it was squished and chewed, split and flipped like a spit. Spit for money, you little shit. There’s a munted bunny: Scrawled a bit, half coloured, then forgotten it — crumpled and chucked it — with the other shit that piles high before some sad little ‘shit-sucking-fairy’ tips that shit in the bin. There’s a scab you can pick. Why haven’t you picked that one? You’ve picked all the others. What’s wrong with that one? And just to show you all who’s boss some bastard dump truck wakes you when that relentless shit finally gets the toss. Those absurd morning party birds: No yesterday for their tiny birdbrains — with ‘The Early Bird and the Worm’ being the best brand new sunrise news they’ve every heard. How dare they be so happy? Why are they so happy? Always with the happy. [Little turds stealing needed sleep on their little joy ride to extinction:] They don’t clean up eternal bits of shit: They wouldn’t remember it even if they did. They just shit on the car, have a laugh and spit pips on the nature strip — until the truck comes the other way and rips your soul though your skin and beats it with a stick. Sometimes they rip shit into smaller bits; sometimes they sprinkle shitty bits on the bench while the sink drips leaving their shit lying about as the weather permits; sometimes they sit and flick shit in the yard and spit and howl when it hits and hurts and they trip — rip their skirts and get other shit on the T-shirts; sometimes it’s paper rock scissors and the waiving of shitty crooked sticks; sometimes it’s snuffing crawlies with the old man’s busted bricks ground down that shed bitter stone tears scattering more shit on the ground. Ground down. Ground down. Ground down. Ground down. The old man is bent because he’s ground down by a burial mound of tiny bits of shit — ground down — that stitch up the twitch quivered beneath a frown twitching like a drug addict arse clown — bitching about the absence of a fix. Look how bits of shit pound us down: Look how bits of shit pound us down: Ripped plastic whirls in giant islands that slip quietly rippling over heads full of shit asphyxiated on some unsustainable unattainable hit until you drown with a gasping sound ground down, ground down. Grinding down, grasping around, hissing out that gasping sound. And no one gives a shit they just keep walking, while that burial mound bears down, ground down, grinding down, under a pounding planet bellicose with your own filthy shit. That puppy is going to tear us all a new one when she hits. You better have some place quiet to hide from the falling sky when that shit rips — because it ain’t going to be quite so cute as flicking shredded bits and LOL-ing on the couch when the old boy flips his lid only to be followed by the pathetic sight of yet another felled grown man falling back with a creaking and a crack into a black hole of sorrow — otherwise known as ‘I think Dad is losing his shit.’ It’s fair to say that we are all pretty sick of it, quite frankly. You might want to start by cleaning up your room, thank you.