Beat it to a perfect pulp

Since we're on the subject, thought I'd post something I wrote a while ago..

Did you think I was going to write about souffle? Call it what you like.

He has little gooey chunks of them, all kinds of fruity flavours, tucked away in labelled jars at the back of his shoe cupboard. Why shoe cupboard you ask me? Read on.

Part 1

You could hear her muffled cries in his stone cold ears.
You could hear his angry roar blazing through her fears.
Stroking every naked inch till every pore is ripe
To ravage with a burning spike he'd twist and twirl and swipe.

Tough black boots that never bend
Purple wounds that never mend
Grinding grey that pretty face
Grinning as he ripped that lace.

Grab her hair, don't make a sound
Watch her writhing, bruised and bound
Make the shoe come down again
Make her glad she found your den.

Harder now, he kicks and kicks
Every blow a bristling brick
Her insides now a mad mauled mess
Her skin merged with the pale pink dress.

She felt the blood flow, black and dead
Unborn infant lying in red.

Part II

A little funny ugly thing
She'd nurtured gladly
just for him.

No pain now
Just a hungry moan
A wild eyed tear stained
shattered groan.

And still the kicks went on and on
She kissed his feet
And begged his scorn
And hugged his image in her mind
And worshipped gladly, wrecked and blind.

So love me as you always do

This one's stained,get a brand new shoe.