Jonathan Eldridge

The Leseratte;
whiskers tickling over pages.
Black eyes
trawling through a wealth of scraps.
Nose moist
with thick, melancholic envy.
Book bins
filled with tattered sheets and broken spines.

The intuitive rummager,
falling between each venerable name,
trying too cleverly to hook
these naïve claws of a nobody
onto the tentative attention
of other bookish scavengers,
reading the slippery, slithering tales.

The Leseratte;
his mind fervently working,
his jarring teeth from the
and phlegms up an uneven mess
of poetry
and scrumpled hydrochloric prose,
chunklets of previous meals
a beginning, and a close.


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