I am an author of palindromes, and I wrote my Master's thesis about the implications of recursive structures in nature to palindromes in literature. If you are interested, you can read Outer Reaches of the Palindrome
. The first chapter is a brutal short story contextualizing several palindromes, and the chapters following that pretty much lay out groundwork for literary palindrome theory. Not to brag. I couldn't find any theory, so I had to read science and math books and Godel, Escher, Bach and books about recursive linguistics, et cetera.
Anyway, here are some favorites of mine. I'm glad to know that other people out there think about palindromes.
Sins seer Lee.
Michael Constantine McConnell
Five Disturbing Palindromes (NthZine, 2004)
“No, Keep Rod on,” a brute lisps. “I'll rig a Tulsa siren, rut an item. Albinos, Mister [B]ret Simson, I blame. “Tina Turner is a slut,” a girl lisps. “I let urban odor peek on.”
“Relapse,” he pondered. “No plasma, yet a straw, Latin egret-sewer [g]rew Ester genital warts, ate yams,” Al pondered. “Nope, he's paler.”
Tia, winepots rub sun as risen. Infinity's s[a]ssy tin if nine sirs' anus burst open. I wait.
Part Adam, I, Maria, help pins repel a lio[n], oil a leper's nipple hair. Am I mad? A trap?
Sun as Tim or felt tips laminate [w]et animal spittle from its anus.
Dog-bard, a wall arose. Soon, a red, nude man-era stole Gail of deli, and, lo, my tit-net carts bade, “trap millions' parts,” but a snag rose many fits, and I'd reward no cabs. Eve[n] Eve's bacon drawer did nastify names, organs, a tub, straps. No ill-imparted, abstract-entity mold nailed foliage. Lots are named under a noose's oral law - a drab god.
Palindrome for Ethan Bell (Backwards City Review, 2003)
Signing is not, new pet son. Pass awe? Not so! No green I plan. I dog, Miss, I hog; I say, “no best-fill lasts”; I’m red now – still, I hate new. Now go, fat asleep user-god. Irate, we do not gnash, sag, nor we nab. Run as muskcats poll a gym-barge (gasp). I help made-wart stew stiff. Is a name surer, eh, sir, eh, Toro? Do fist lame Rome; yes, sell war-cotton’s nog at cola. I rob rasta-prod of less. Red dunes I rot. No, do not spill, Lord; puff its rosecap’s red nub. Milk-lawyer, pot nine men in stunt news. A doctor sits – I’m fine! Desire Warren’s lip to help miss. A warning (Is it? Is not?) noses a rest, sir. Whore, work curt as a sin-net set! I knob mud eras, nag! Rode cane melts. I, penis, yawn. I sub betrayal. Prose werewolf, I did not send a fag, nor we rip mud as a side wang. Dew as pun, we stub. Diaper, fill a bastion. Stun-saw tips a rat sewn idle. Homemade porn? Ah, ten odes re[v]ersed on: Ethan roped a memo held in west. A rasp – it was nuts? No, it’s a ball if repaid but, sewn up, sawed, gnawed, is a sad umpire. Wrong a fad nest on. Did I flower ewes or play art? Ebb us in ways, in epistle men – aced organs are dumb on kites. Tennis as a truck rower, oh wrists, erases on tons. It, I sign-in raw; as simple, hot pilsner, rawer, is Eden if mist is rot, codas went nuts. Nine men, into prey, walk, limb under spaces or stiff-up – droll lips to nod onto risen udders. Self-odor pats arborial octagons not to crawl less, eye more malts if odor-other is here, ruse-man – as if fits; wet strawed, ample hips age. “Grab my gallop-stack,” sums an urbane wrong. Ash sang to node-wet, arid ogres, up eels, at a fog won. We net a hill. Its wonder mists all, lifts ebony as I go hiss. I’m god in alpine – ergo: no stone was sap. No step went on – signing is.