Jennifer Death (& my mid-life crisis on the Isis)
Jennifer Death, the ebony-eyed crocodile
has never seen the Euphrates or the Nile
for she is from England’s snakish Thames
or, to be more precise, is
from that stretch in Oxford that they call the Isis
(so there’s an Egyptian connection after all)
Jennifer Death, the ebony-skinned crocodile
considered my written request for quite a while
before granting me an interview
“The last one I gave,” she said “to that poxy Oxford Mail,
called me ‘THE ALLIGATOR OF HATE’!
I put in an offical complaint – but to no avail.
Alligator? Alligator! Have you ever been called an orangutan?”
Jennifer Death, the ebony-spined crocodile
met me under Folly Bridge with a disconcerting smile.
And whilst I tottered around in a leaky old punt
she floated quite effortlessly in her fluid element
(but never quite left the shadows)
Jennifer Death fixed me with an ebony stare
and said, “Fire away my little morsel, but beware:
three questions only, and I hope they’re worth my while,
because this morning I’m a rather peckish little crocodile.”
(and I’m sure I heard her belly rumble)
“J-J-J-J-Jennifer,” I began, “I mean, er, I mean Miss, Mrs, Ms, Ms Death,”
(my palms as sticky as honey, my lungs devoid of breath)
“Ms J-Jenny Death, I mean, Mrs Deathly Jen.
Oh shit-shit-shit – can I begin this interview again?”
“That’s an unusual first question,” said Jennifer Death with an ebony grin
“No, no, that’s not one my three questions,” I quickly butted in
And she laughed, “I’m only – how do you say? – chewing your leg.”
And I said, “Pulling, Pulling. It’s: I’m only pulling your leg.”
(and she coughed, or chuckled, I couldn’t tell which)
“OK, OK.” I quickly pulled myself together.
“Question one: I’m sure our readers would like to know whether
you – how can I put it? – whether you have a boss, or are you self-employed?”
And her ebony nostrils narrowed as if slightly annoyed
“In my line of work,” she said, “We make no distinction between business and pleasure."
And I said, “That wasn’t my question.”
“Then refine it,” said she.
“OK, OK,” said I, steadying my merrily-knocking knees
“Question two: I’m sure our readers would be intrigued
to know how – how can I put it? – how is it that you decide
exactly who to call to the… to the other side
on any given day?”
She paused, and I watched a chain of wobbly farts bubble up through the water
“I do beg your pardon,” said she, “I know I oughta
change my diet, but I often find – don’t you too? –
that you’re drawn to the foodstuffs that aren’t necessarily good for you."
And I said, “That wasn’t my question.”
“Then refine it,” said she
“And let’s hope that your final question – how do you say? – guts the mustard.”
And I said, “Cuts. Cuts. It’s: let’s hope it cuts the mustard.”
At which point her rancid farts began to scream like sharp-taloned beasts against the lining of my nose
and I totally lost it, unravelling like the highly strung innards of a neurotic-pre-psychotic-kitchen-clock
dropping to my knees and beating the bottom of my leaky punt with bloody knuckles
screaming, “Why are you such a cold-blooded cold-hearted cruel crocodilian thing?
Why? Why? Why? Why?”
And suddenly Jennifer Death began to cry
and waves of grief shuddered down the length of her ebony spine
“Why? Why? Why?” she echoed.
“Why do you humans always impugn my motives, my words, my work, my smile, my tears?
You lot approach death like you approach life:
reeking of fear.”
And her tears spilled like a broken necklace of ebony pearls
into the Isis waters, causing spiralling swirls
to spin, like galaxies, downstream to London town
I sat down in my punt
and felt a right fool
as each receding whirlpool
pulled something of me to its core
until I felt as empty as an empty travel trunk
“I have no more questions."
Jennifer Death fixed me with an ebony eye
“But I have,” said she. “Fire away,” said I
“Well,” said she, “Call me a nosy greedy scaly old hag,
but I was wondering what sort of sandwiches you’ve got there in your bag.”
“You won’t like them," I replied
"They’re marmite and hommous,”
“Don’t be such a prejudiced human trout,” snapped Jennifer with an ebony grin
“We liminal reptilian archetypes
would – how do you say? – kiss for hommous and marmite
sandwiches.”
And I said, “Kill. Kill. It’s: we would kill for hommous and marmite
sandwiches.”
“Kiss. Kill.” she whispered. “Kill. Kiss.
“It’s all the same difference
in the company
of my sweet
Isis.”
Jennifer Death, the ebony-eyed crocodile
has never seen the Euphrates or the Nile
for she is from England’s snakish Thames
or, to be more precise, is
from that stretch in Oxford that they call the Isis
(so there’s an Egyptian connection after all)
Jennifer Death, the ebony-skinned crocodile
considered my written request for quite a while
before granting me an interview
“The last one I gave,” she said “to that poxy Oxford Mail,
called me ‘THE ALLIGATOR OF HATE’!
I put in an offical complaint – but to no avail.
Alligator? Alligator! Have you ever been called an orangutan?”
Jennifer Death, the ebony-spined crocodile
met me under Folly Bridge with a disconcerting smile.
And whilst I tottered around in a leaky old punt
she floated quite effortlessly in her fluid element
(but never quite left the shadows)
Jennifer Death fixed me with an ebony stare
and said, “Fire away my little morsel, but beware:
three questions only, and I hope they’re worth my while,
because this morning I’m a rather peckish little crocodile.”
(and I’m sure I heard her belly rumble)
“J-J-J-J-Jennifer,” I began, “I mean, er, I mean Miss, Mrs, Ms, Ms Death,”
(my palms as sticky as honey, my lungs devoid of breath)
“Ms J-Jenny Death, I mean, Mrs Deathly Jen.
Oh shit-shit-shit – can I begin this interview again?”
“That’s an unusual first question,” said Jennifer Death with an ebony grin
“No, no, that’s not one my three questions,” I quickly butted in
And she laughed, “I’m only – how do you say? – chewing your leg.”
And I said, “Pulling, Pulling. It’s: I’m only pulling your leg.”
(and she coughed, or chuckled, I couldn’t tell which)
“OK, OK.” I quickly pulled myself together.
“Question one: I’m sure our readers would like to know whether
you – how can I put it? – whether you have a boss, or are you self-employed?”
And her ebony nostrils narrowed as if slightly annoyed
“In my line of work,” she said, “We make no distinction between business and pleasure."
And I said, “That wasn’t my question.”
“Then refine it,” said she.
“OK, OK,” said I, steadying my merrily-knocking knees
“Question two: I’m sure our readers would be intrigued
to know how – how can I put it? – how is it that you decide
exactly who to call to the… to the other side
on any given day?”
She paused, and I watched a chain of wobbly farts bubble up through the water
“I do beg your pardon,” said she, “I know I oughta
change my diet, but I often find – don’t you too? –
that you’re drawn to the foodstuffs that aren’t necessarily good for you."
And I said, “That wasn’t my question.”
“Then refine it,” said she
“And let’s hope that your final question – how do you say? – guts the mustard.”
And I said, “Cuts. Cuts. It’s: let’s hope it cuts the mustard.”
At which point her rancid farts began to scream like sharp-taloned beasts against the lining of my nose
and I totally lost it, unravelling like the highly strung innards of a neurotic-pre-psychotic-kitchen-clock
dropping to my knees and beating the bottom of my leaky punt with bloody knuckles
screaming, “Why are you such a cold-blooded cold-hearted cruel crocodilian thing?
Why? Why? Why? Why?”
And suddenly Jennifer Death began to cry
and waves of grief shuddered down the length of her ebony spine
“Why? Why? Why?” she echoed.
“Why do you humans always impugn my motives, my words, my work, my smile, my tears?
You lot approach death like you approach life:
reeking of fear.”
And her tears spilled like a broken necklace of ebony pearls
into the Isis waters, causing spiralling swirls
to spin, like galaxies, downstream to London town
I sat down in my punt
and felt a right fool
as each receding whirlpool
pulled something of me to its core
until I felt as empty as an empty travel trunk
“I have no more questions."
Jennifer Death fixed me with an ebony eye
“But I have,” said she. “Fire away,” said I
“Well,” said she, “Call me a nosy greedy scaly old hag,
but I was wondering what sort of sandwiches you’ve got there in your bag.”
“You won’t like them," I replied
"They’re marmite and hommous,”
“Don’t be such a prejudiced human trout,” snapped Jennifer with an ebony grin
“We liminal reptilian archetypes
would – how do you say? – kiss for hommous and marmite
sandwiches.”
And I said, “Kill. Kill. It’s: we would kill for hommous and marmite
sandwiches.”
“Kiss. Kill.” she whispered. “Kill. Kiss.
“It’s all the same difference
in the company
of my sweet
Isis.”
