Refinement
He used to beat me to the rhythm
of an iambic pentameter
but I never knew which poem
went through his mind as he
bruised mine.
He drank port and listened to opera
and screamed at me in time to
either Bartok or Wagner.
He was refined in his abuse
but I never did appreciate it,
not like he wanted, not the Dante
or the Fouette kicks.
I appreciate books,
now they're not being
smashed against my skull.
r.l.w
I realised I never posted the finished poem I started in this blog post.
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