Because the behaviour of salt imitates memory, the coffee grinds of lovers, the spines of armadillos,

Salt takes poetry from your tongue by arching it, and holds it there to extract you. Salt splits itself molecularly to be tasted.


I’ve found a way to make language a ‘concentrating pool’, that is, in essence, an industrial sea:

A temporary lake with foraged sea water, where sun is instructed to carve salt flats, pyramids of crystal sodium to be scraped, made into something useful for the body, salt lets you feel your own tongue. And the way bell said, enter these words as though they are flesh


I practice this with prayer, build a temporary lake with foraged sea water,

The scrapings become language, 

It seems like a lot of effort to hold this in your head when only parts become artefact,


When I remember with language I’m holding the peelings,

But my bleached hair on the bathroom floor, watching B vampire movies in the Adina — peelings which litter the atmosphere, and the space remembers it/the body, recites it.


Note that from the 10th floor of the hotel mentioned above there is a man showering with the bathroom door ajar, 

He locates himself in this moment by finding how the steam comes off his body, 

He remembers this moment of location, by room number 1015,


If u remember… there is a phenomena called interference — where in our networks, memories disrupt one another. In movies there is a cliché of a character replaying a perfectly-held-memory in 4K (3840 x 2160 pixel), 

the way we really remember is more like Tom Cruise’s face on Bill Hader. 

The way we really remember is how it appears in physical language, cut and shaped, deep and faked,

Broken into pieces, easy enough to feel on one’s own tongue.


Imagine if our internal networks had breaks of silence, like good music I listen to. 

Because in Love Island they show us how they sleep,  and Deodato reminds us that the womb even when not creating is watching, but says nothing. 




I am mostly made up of water with him. Swimming the last day of summer I find eroded fruit skin at the bottom of the sea. I think, 

do we return to things we are made up of? 

Because somehow salt always comes from the sea. And we really love salt. 

Is there a point we exist beside it. The fruit skin with holes — the way it doesn’t mind it