Please Accept My Application To Become A Bog Body

• I’m always eating meals consisting of porridge with barley, flax, wild seeds, occasionally fish, etc

• I bought a Seamus Heaney book at an airport bookstore sometime around the year 2000, I think it was his Beowulf translation

• Man I’m just born to be in it (peat)

• Salty air traveling over the Jutland wetlands from the North Sea would provide an ideal environment for the growth of peat, which eventually rots and produces a vinegar-like substance known as “bog acid” which would preserve my soft tissues like a lovely mango pickle

• This would be good

• Give me a cloak and leave me alone

• Root me

• Without natural drainage channels, conditions would be almost completely anaerobic, further inhibiting decomposition

• Layers of compacted irregular mosses and debris known as sphagnum would envelop my body in a cold immobilizing matrix, additionally conserving any clothing or leather items you might want to toss in there with me

• I could hang onto whatever you wanted to place in my hands or wrap carefully around my torso for pretty much an indefinite period of time, no problem

• Put me in the slow swamp

• I wouldn’t even mind

• The big cold wet of ending

• This is where we sift history and get time damp

• This way if anyone wanted to look at my mild closed eyes in 8000 years it would be pretty straightforward to do so

• Juice me up with it

• Put a hoard in, push the the torch down

• Sink me in the freeze-frame dirt and give me a moss hat and I’ll wait out whatever

• Ring around me cows to sleep sweetly under flowers

• Lock me in a cart, mirror-top, Jörðward

• Cognate me a muckish riverbed, slow as rivers get, bottom out to toponymics

• Drape me, lock me away, quiet me, drop me drop me into the sweet rich dirt-work of bog-kenning

• Gauls know how to die

• Muck me into shoe-leather for the long miry sweep

• Bog is cellar-water for storing leeks, roots, torcs, hoards, barrows, chariots, for needsome later

• For wait and slow down, for the unhurry spin cycle of locked-in marsh

• Press me at the nice big world-cow Auðumbla for licking away rime until we reach the beef jerky of God

• It’s the best resting here

• It’s the rich churning of soil and skin til I’m soft as yogurt, tan as suede, happy little underground shoe rocketing under-down

• Thanks in advance for put me there

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