Red belt the one below white

 Nineteen ninety eight.

Crimson floor, new age of despair.

Curtains long red too with white inner sleeves.

It all spelled sorcery.

For it echoed coincidently.

The exact tones of the oncoming sunset.

As we punched the air,

pretended we could tell the future.

And I ... Simon Bernard Elliott.

Just day dreamed.

Until a fist put me down.

AND I BLED FUCKING CRIMSON.

On the crimson floor.

up the crimson curtains.

The seriousness peeling off like a face mask.

At first the muffled howling of laughter.

Then it died down to the few women's attempts at pity.

Carrying me off to wash the blood off me.

Day dream over, now life's full of Simon you need to be more careful.

But it wasn't over, the images just kept coming.

From the strange sunset folding the horizon.

Violence is just another guaranteed piece of this reality.

Must i ready my fists and my defence?

Or will I be bleeding like a punk over some basin?