Palindromes

Amen ICA Cinema

A beautiful palindromic number plate on Eyre Street, Sheffield (was the Audi driver aware of it?) reminded me of a palindromic poem I wrote.

I saw so many dynamos,

Hannah, Bob, level Bob,

Mum’ Dad, Lil, Nan, Sis,

Leon n’ Noel, Gregor n’ Roger G.

One Eno, Abba, Norah’s mum Sharon,

Lem n’ Mel, Flora, Tina, Eve,

Otto, Oprah n’ Harpo, Asa, Idi,

Nora an’ Aaron, Dr. Awkward.

And Edna, and dna, and dna

And dna. Laid? O I dare not

So many daffodils to oscillate.

Metal erupts as a vast pure dogma

In my heros.

Llama I nominate Naomi.

Ah, Satan was lime and lager.

Seven a.m., rat’s dog.

As time loops a-fired now,

War n’ guns are macabre.

Satsuma, spam, wonton, bacon tub

Tuna megatarts, a salami salad,

Raw desserts, Evian, a decaf,

One cigar – “toss it!” I rail-

Won’t lovers revolt now?

Revolve Kev Loser, revolve,

Rev lover – he did eh?

No Lyn, not on nylon strap.

Redder mask, cuff fits animals,

Knob el beef.

No mists erase cares a lot,

Sh – Tom! Set a gap

Or prevention. My, nor can

A liver of lives, drawn onward.

Viva! Let mad Zeus reign at Tulsa,

No minor ego, no witness,

A solo gig.

Puff up, pull up, put up.

I roamed under it did I?

Did I as…a Toyota?

Nine men in a Toyota

Deliver a fire volcano.

Now E.R.A.s race Rome to Vienna,

Racecar, race fast safe car.

No it can as it is; it is a war.

A Tsar, a CIA major general.

Ceded a new order – Walford.

Warsaw, Vienna.

Des, rat-arsed, art rat’s dog,

Faced no devil sinned.

I’m Herod, agnostic at a motel.

Beef a Santa, to hoot Ho Ho Ho!

Traitor’s praline – no stop,

Not Milk Tray, tied Depardieu’s dog.

On one dragon, one dragon,

Bats, gnus, star comedy pools,

No “X” in revel so grab me, don’t nod,

Spool emits as time loops,

Don’t nod – embargos level

Nixon’s loopy democrats.

(Sung) “Stab no garden O, no garden O”,

No God Sue, I draped deity art.

Klimt on pots – “0ne- nil”

Arp’s “Roti-art”.

Sad? I’m “Oh, oh, oh, too hot at NASA”.

Feeble Tom, a tacit song,

A doh re mi.

Dennis lived on decaf.

God star trades rat arsed,

Anne IV was raw - Dr. of Law,

Red Rowena de – declare negro

Jamaica, Rasta, raw as it is.

It is an action.

Race fast, safe car, racecar.

Anne I vote more cars are won,

On a clover if reviled.

A Toyota, nine men in a Toyota,

Said I’d do. Good! I did.

Tired nude Maori put up, pull up,

“Puff up” gigolos assent.

I won Geronimo a slut.

Tangier, Suez Dam, Tel Aviv,

Drawn onwards evil for evil,

An acronym, no it never

Propagates moths

To laser aces are St. Simon.

Feeble bonk –

Slam in a stiff fuck Sam.

Redder parts.

No Lyn, not on nylon.

He did, eh, revolve,

Rev lover, resolve Kev loser,

Won’t lovers revolt now?

Liar, it is so tragic.

Eno faced a naïve, stressed ward.

Alas, I’m alas a stratagem, a nut,

But no cab, not now, maps a must.

A Serb, a camera, snug n’ raw.

Wonder if a spool emits,

A God Star man, Emil’s regal d.n.a,

Emil saw Natasha, I moan,

E.T. animal I am all sore!

Hymn I am, God erupts a vast pure

Late metallic soot slid off a

Dynamo’s tone radio dial,

And dna, and dna

And dna, and Edna,

Dr. Awkward, Nora an’ Aaron.

Idi, Asa, Oprah n’ Harpo,

Otto, Eve, Anita,

Rolf, Lem n’ Mel,

Nora’s mum Sharon,

Abba, one Eno,

Gregor n Roger G.

Leon n’ Noel, Sis, Nan, Lil.

Dad n’ Mum, Bob,

Level Bob, Hannah.

So many dynamos.

Was I?

Mixed metaphors

Copyright Joëlle Dépont

This is me in my room, London circa 1984, a contact sheet of photos taken by my friend Joëlle Dépont, who lived in the next door room and was a rock photographer, one reason why the pictures are so good. Note the gas fire, the only heating, the futon I bought with the first £1,000 of my Arts Council video artist-in-residence grant, based at the North East London Polytechnic, and the U-matic video player on the floor with a Sony Trinitron monitor. The Trinitron was widely regarded at the time as the best TV to exhibit your work on.

We were living in a quasi-artist’s commune, IGA, short for Intergalactic Arts, just by the Elephant and Castle. It was cheap, and walking distance to central London; always in fact on maps of central London but invariably covered over by the legend in the bottom left hand corner, showing the scale and description of the map. A forgotten corner of the almost city centre, and ungentrified then and hardly even now. It was ‘quasi’, because although the huge ex pub looked like a squat, we in fact paid rent to the council, and we were a diverse bunch hardly into group living, although the seven of us did pay £10 into a weekly fund and everyone cooked one communal meal a week for the others.

There were band rehearsal studios in the old beer cellars, damp, with carpets on the walls, and a dance studio on the first floor. Often I would walk through the front door after a day at the Polytechnic and push my way through groups of tap dancing girls in the hallway, waiting for the studio to become free. If you worked for IGA studios, or Ro and Mandy who ran it, you got your room and food paid for, plus ten quid spending money and a quarter of Pakistani black hash, a workplace benefit rarely seen these days. I was the only one of the seven of us who had a job I commuted out to, and I only worked one day a week at the Poly as a fine art tutor, in addition to the residency.

When the cellar next door was cleared of rubbish, it became a 4 track recording studio for Brian, who didn't live in the house but was closely associated with it and spent seemingly most of his time there, often smoking in a large kitchen with visitors and residents. Brian had been bass player for the Winkies, who had been a 1970s pub rock band and semi famously backed Brian Eno on an album and also on his first and only solo tour.

My friend Tony and I were in the studio with him trying to create an extended mash up mix, based around Chic’s I want your love, coupled with Frankie Goes To Hollywood's Relax. The equipment was ramshackle and temperamental, the space was tiny and we kept getting in each other's way. Brian had a way with words, but he often lost control of them, ending many long sentences with ‘….or whatever’. At this time of confusion he summed the situation up with a phrase where the metaphors themselves were so fused together that it would require an advanced nuclear process to separate them.

“It’s a case Steve and Tony’ he exclaimed in frustration, ‘of too many chefs, and not enough broths’.

Blood harmony

I am interviewed live on YouTube in connection with a film in production, for which I have willingly agreed to be a patron. After my interview is to be a musician, who will play and sing. When I get the poster I am surprised. Is it just me or does it look like Steve Hawley and Sarah Jay Hawley are a double act; he does the films and she does the music ?

In fact we don't know each other; or so I thought. Then I remembered Sarah as an art student at Psalter Lane, the site of Sheffield Art School for some decades, before she became well-known musically, singing for Massive Attack. In the end she was unfortunately unwell and someone else did the music, but I did wonder what the etiquette is. Would I have pointed out the fact (no relation...) or does that look even odder?

When I shamelessly Google myself there are two other (more) notable Steve Hawleys. One is an astronaut, the other also an artist, a painter who does faintly erotic figurative work with female models '…considered to be one of the most prominent and highly esteemed artists in the United States today'. I recall getting an email once from someone who wanted me to paint a Catholic portrait, possibly mixing me up with the highly esteemed other one. I considered saying yes, but having only done one painting in four years of Art School and nothing since, disappointment would have been inevitable. Possibly on the scale of Tony Hancock in the 1960 film The Rebel, when he unveils his magnum opus sculpture, the legendary Aphrodite at the Watering Hole.