the pickled giant
crown of five sonnets, first published in
Billingtron 5000
ed by Megan Vaughan/
summer 2017/
https://meganvaughan.co.uk/portfolio-item/billingtron-5000/
i
The pickled giant in his bog, lying
under peat, flesh preserved, beneath
the world but not retreated. Now, easing
against the soil that sucks at him, he heaves
his bulk skywards, out, then across
the land. He drifts, cold sun wakes his body,
stiff joints crack like frost.
His eyes have woken. All of him is ready.
He fixes, purposed. Marches. The horizon
tugs, promises to satisfy a lust;
a press of other bodies – civilisation
and in that crush to nestle, snug, among us
(the very much alive) here for the shows,
to meet our need and impart what he knows.
ii
To meet our need and impart what he knows
takes more than legs; he flexes hands and tongue,
which fill with blood. He can record. He goes
toward a theatre, embedded in the throng
of punters. Our scent is fresh to him. He smiles.
Tonight could be the one. It is a chase
but must be done. His hunt will be worthwhile;
anticipation swims onto his face.
The lines there reassemble, fall and split –
this production clearly not for him:
too much of the director’s ego in it,
less impresario than straight-up dim.
He boils in his seat. This takes the piss.
Billington has had enough of this.
iii
Billington has had enough of this:
at the interval he leaves his seat to head
outside n find the nearest bar, get pissd
& find something to take. His legs are lead
by neon lights into a basement club.
He buys a bag of powder in the bogs,
empties it on the sink and honks it up.
He gurns, his collar heats, his tie comes off,
his pikkld, bbubbling skkn glos green, then pink
then Gold/ his eyes r fyre/ HE IS A GOD
hiss skkn all owt now/ he brays “WHO DO YOU THINK
YOU ARE?!” at th entire world. He rots.
His hair falls out. The lids melt from his eyes.
His teeth are bared. He swells and swells in size.
iv
His teeth are bared. He swells and swells in size.
His shoulders hit the ceiling and it cracks
and tears. Molten tears eke from his eyes
and soak the thirsty earth while at his back
the building is in shreds. The world is small
before his monstrous body, growing huge
relentlessly. We cannot run. His all-
consuming, ancient majesty will do
his final work and tear our cities down.
Our time has come, we’re all on our way out.
Billington has come, his age is now.
The proclamation gutters from his mouth:
“I DOUBT THAT YOU COULD EVER COMPREHEND
THE THINGS I’VE DONE FOR YOU. I HAVE BEEN SENT.”
v
“THE THINGS I’VE DONE FOR YOU! I HAVE BEEN SENT
TO PURIFY YOUR ART, AN ARBITER.
AND YOU PERSISTENTLY EXHIBIT SHITE.
WHAT AM I TO DO? YOU DO NOT LEARN,”
he lows, glistening in the setting sun.
“THERE SIMPLY ARE NO OTHER OPTIONS LEFT.”
He glares down, plants his feet, swells his lungs
unhinges his jaw, to swallow us to death
but mercy; the ground is sodden, the world a waste
thick with mud that clings and drags him down –
his own destructive power his foil. He strains,
but vainly. His purchase on the world is gone.
Finally his own weight pulls him in,
the pickled giant, in his bog, lying.