star full of skies

Christendom
what relief
sunday drunk
Christendom

my body is my frienemy

I can only in my hope

can only in my hope

only in my hope

in my hope

my hope

hope

more of the same
more of the same
more of the same
more of the same

Video

Short reading at the Royal Gallery Amsterdam

it's dark here
is it dark there

there is no god
keep preying

This poem is taking too long to respond

John & Lee

Click to play

big dutch small

God's very

glorious dark

life's eating the dead

Writing Poems

last night I threw empty liquor bottles at people

but I missed and they never even heard

the glass smash this morning I felt sorry

took two tranquilizers and was suddenly absolved

you have to dedicate yourself to people

who don’t listen so you’re constantly screaming

slamming doors and throwing bottles

and sometimes they get a good clean crack on the head

thinking’s

evolution’s

murder

pain evolved

as our frugivorous father and mother

trudged from Eden under the weight

of fresh skins

Three Poems

3

Always Look Up

consciousness
anal

and my foot's and endless wave

there's so much
less
to this more

Phenomenon

prioritising February

regularly anonymous

provocatively philosophical

hereditary onomatopoeia

facilitates pronunciation

time's nothing without us

non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense non sense

now's then
because then's
was will be

then's now's then

and we're
sometimes
more but
most times
now

then of course
then
then in due course
nothing

on the last day Lee Bridges created heaven

time constantly begins

to decay we go there

we see the ruins

and they’re just that

art’s the cult of philosophy

art’s the cult of

art’s the cult

art’s the

art’s

god's
joke
don't
laugh

from Selfish Monologues

flesh keeper of the flame mp3

wisdom
without
wisdom

without
wisdom
without

wisdom
without
wisdom

you awake

?

Life According To Webster's

a light dramatic composition

marked by broadly satirical comedy

and improbable plot

desire’s spectacular force

of habit dies smiling

so much for the insectuous

past otherwise de-believing

so much where I’ve been

you’ve been there

and we seem the same

this poem

can’t make up it’s mind

how it feels

Lee Bridges

“can I get more light"

was the first thing he said

at his last reading

unborn

what will they call you

it must have three syllables

with an initial stress

Aftermath MP3

http://ajjones.org/aftermath.mp3

Nationality’s where

every one’s

the same difference

thinking about feeling

if some guy from the middle east

said he was the son of god

would you have dinner with him

Versal 6

The wordsinhere people got something rich and creamy for you, and it's from Amsterdam where I like to get drunk like a Belgian.

can't we find a Protestant church

for Sunday Jesus always seems

to be dying in the Catholic ones

stupid American

you must pour it gently

here! now get drunk

like a Belgian

Gun

I had a cousin

blew his head off

it was easy

the swans are young again

I stop to watch them fumble

with themselves I myself

was never a baby there are no photos

only stories I don't believe

of how they had to wake me to eat

have kids to fill in the blanks

make them remember how it was

to imagine when they're lost

there’s an old lady down the hall

with a bowl of candy

reduce life to that which
takes care of itself
communicate through echoes

what to do with absolute

realism

but decorate cemeteries

to do the most damage

we must have

a real faith in hell

consciousness is all I have

pain is exaggeration

pain is all I have

exaggeration is consciousness

exaggeration is all I have

consciousness is pain

all I have is

consciousness pain and exaggeration

beginnings in my life have no titles

my day has no subject no theme

and being the impersonation of 4 billion years of matter

I am not a man but men

either what I was or will become

Paradise

Paradise was written over many years in New York, Copenhagen, Amsterdam, and Alicante. The poem from which the book takes its title was inspired by an elementary school textbook. A possible subject for a poem, according to the author, is "a map of paradise."

Dementia

I told you if I had

to leave town

I would go to Chicago

there was vast

resistance

boarding the plane

The Zeurotic Manifesto

Prevailing evolution. We bumble with science into which we venture and believe that chaos can predict the want to die.

Only because we are a new millennium, we have reset our minds to the zero of the complex manifestation of face value; give us back our tribes, our actual existence.

We are skeptical as we can filter through so many inputs. We look for peaceful means. Whatever thought we share, we care about ourselves; no time to limit our ability to make mistakes seeing the mirrors that keep us exponentially through evolution’s novelty.

This is a fearlessness with an absence of fear.

When the self imposed cognitive Y2K and the physical boundaries explode through every area, ours is the same. Want is to continue, arbitrary.

What used to be the will to live, the want to control, we reserve the right to it all.

Cappy Jack, Andrew J. Jones--2007

everyone lives somewhere

does that make it right

Selfish Monologues

After Paradise, I began automatically recording my impressions of ideas from scientists, philosophers, poets, musicians, painters, sculptors and friends and was left with many notebooks full of scribbled chunks of text that I chiseled down to form curious juxtapositions. The result is Selfish Monologues, egopoetic rants from oblivion.

***

from Selfish Monologues

His handwriting shows no respect

she sleeps these twenty years or so

colliding

with the screams of reality fit

only for shelter and food

you have a long way to go

years between conversations in your true voice

believed cursed since you learned to talk

this is when gods and men revive the air

purged

in the theatre of sacrifice

when war is trivial and peace responds

in every selfish monologue

the streets raise an order that the sun

shine shadows on the wall

every child a drip in the slow destruction