Stood terraced in this limited Lowry
landscape, monochrome-matchstick lads lidded
vermilion and blue. Like the bruise from your
dad, when he’s seven pints bittered on a
nil-one score. Blunt swipe of your fringe, blank face,
buttoned coat. You’re a naïve oil painting,
this sketched-scanty Saturday afternoon.
This post is brought to you by PoetryBri
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About The Author
Debbie is a writer and artist who lives in West Yorkshire. Her work explores what it means to be northern, British, working class and LGBT+. She is currently studying a B.A. in Creative Writing with University of the Creative Arts. When not writing, she can be found customising resin art dolls inspired by the characters in her stories. She posts both her writing and artwork on her Instagram.
Bandit Fiction is an entirely not-for-profit organisation ran by passionate volunteers. We do our best to keep costs low, but we rely on the support of our readers and followers to be able to do what we do. The best way to support us is by purchasing one of our back issues. All issues are ‘pay what you want’, and all money goes directly towards paying operational costs.
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