Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

Dig him in his element: the coolest man
on the planet. Centuries ahead of us

in death and dying: cryogenically composed,
freeze-dried with classic, copper-age tech

perfect for Forensics to cast their magic on:
a test of isotopic composition, gut content,

carbon-dating, has natural causes, accident,
sheer bad luck hard-boiled to a sinister plot

of unknown origin. Confirmed is the presence
of another man’s blood on his knife and yet

another man’s on his cloak. A shoulder wound
in the shape of an arrow matches what we imagine

the shape of an arrow wound to be. Evidence
suggests a hankering for chamois and deer

and a handful of blackthorn sloes in lieu
of beer or wine before that final ascent

into the mountains. Charted, drawn, inked-in,
fifty-seven tattoos says Fritz was a colourful

specimen, but we all know it’s the shoes
that make the man, and his were bearskin,

waterproof and wide, designed for walking
on snow. To follow in his footsteps

is where the young and hip can expect to go

Matthew Rader is a homo sapien.