Write Yer Ane Zine

Words about DIY punk; records, shows, interviews, whatever.

Category: poems



Mailed myself back to the light as a bundle of old records, unsold, packaged by a friend, destined for the ashes of grandmothers’ only village. Wrong flag, braw times, royally shafted. Together, legions, we drones play shepherds by voodoo’s smoke. 5XgmTV, aye but, how the why, asked Jojo yo-yo the fighter pilot.

Quality assurance, I guarantee thee, non-compliant sheep, perfidious dog, lie down, crown of crowded cornrows; fuckkk farming, croft yer ane Bristol crème, cunts run countries. Six counties doth not a coalition conceive, but criminality. Duco fucked a monk foetus to save children of Israel in Catalonia catacombs.

Tradesmen, ocean grown. Hollywood’s greatest directors worship idolatrous illustrations o’ Ben Hur, evolutionary biology heretical, your supremacy, I swear upon thy burning cross. Ken, the one ye nailed the sun to, bathing satanic majesty in da Nile. The greatest Reich, Einsenhower, shuffles Roosevelt’s tarot.

Iron man, DC aye? Celtic Unity, hysteria. Gallus frog marches Pepe, misunderstood existentially; Scratchy, Big Mo, Homer; sketched before disappearing wisdom fell acidic allies down Eric’s forked tongue, towards ska-punk gallows. Fascism fears paella not, olive oil drown my illusion, omertà shit.

How many fukkkin times, chef? Insubordination, old school, meant plank meet posture. Some-necked giraffes ken karate; pencils, untrained, snap aforementioned ligaments. Excuse me, violence, reality burled. Feel bad ye what, shat yersel? Maestro called, call him bounced cheque, mate.

Wake, bake, ye walking wake’n’wank, this is yer conscious speaking. No sunbirds, statistics, post-match analysis necessary, take aw yer pull, grind them. Queensferry rules, bring yer ane bombs, bullshit battalions bail before “bad boys” bully bullies, armed with voice, bass, guitar, skateboard. Cake?

Toots, listen, Brad’s an archetype; the Joe Rogan with insight, if ye insist, yet resist. Psychic linguistic Pictish cider, no brain damage on this, Mike. Roy, the wee or big wan. Fuck roundabouts, Zebedee, real magic is Bungle’s pain in stereo silence. Broken speakers. Tell no lord, lies commander.

Smitty? Saw him wes’on glock over flock street, UZIfied fishing, TECKLE. Karl, Ash nipped off themsel, why bother rushing? Greed, meet Envy in Zionist hate, almighty me squire, what jolly spiffing flasks full of falafel, yessir. Three bags, indeed, sir. Bargains for big baws, wee Johnny Part Time, count yer jaws.

Ken fine I kick it, cunto, ken? If in doubt, spit it out, forever friends, GISM. Poker. Malt liquor. Salt lakes. Suck my dildo, van heeder. Pounded fist in ham peace, guggit, barkers, honkin’, ye reeking maggot jam tart bar steward walking union street queen. A mole.

Offend me in GCHQ magazine, full frontal, beamed in, Scotty Boy, too hot for TV, paid with Kaufman’s unscripted credit card removal company, pissed on by carer’s deserving means but lacking production. Kippers, nae per diem. Did it, done it, lined it up, snorted, burnt doon. Straw men? Chip rappers.

Flood windmills with Steve Bannon. Information overload; chessboard overlords of the annihilated sewers, all roads lead to broken promises, land theft, Rome. Picked it up, irish irony, in the north, karma west of white cliffs, Nelson. Port and lemonade indulgence, Dennis. A river.

Denial is potent. 0141.com

For eighty eight zombie corpses

Dragged through the streets

To hang their heads off.

Divine intervention.

Sweet. Sweet papaya.


A Poem; Black Hall Hole 7

Shrödingers mathematical truths

simply required forgetting

everything ye have ever learned.

Burn all post-endarkenment heretics.

Mother Earth-raping genocidal fools

masquerading as followers of Christ

are the true serpents.

Smith wrote the bible of capital in

The KKKingdumb of Fife, but

who remembers his theories of

moral sentiments?

Literally millions of people,

just none of them with the stolen

resources to leverage wealth

from ancient land that is life itself.

She belongs to no one,

we merely the labourers

born to serve

Queen Bee, back from the heart.

Darkness, wrote Conrad,

leads to apocalypse.

The books of revelations was a test.

To the ridiculous,

the sublime,

for the fools who they knew

could never understand the jokes.

An ancient, evergreen genius;

trolling sheep with fairytales.

The story repeats algorithmically;

ideology via meme

when none of the folks preaching

have read the books,

let alone understand that

propaganda is both art and science.


Shepherds dinnae tend the flock,

collies do.

Revisit Pythagoras.

YouTube researchers; read books

Book readers; meditate

Book readers and meditators;

read more books and mediate.

One of seven is an eighth fold.

Chop wood, carry water.


Chop Plato.

Hang Descartes, was it Chris?

Already done.

The academy always misses the point.

Chop Mushrooms, drink water.

Pink triangles.

No my problem, mate.


I weave beauty from cancer in the morning

to allow the demons to awake slowly

These days, we’re just not thinking

while I / they / who skipped ahead

dog years in regression

devolution through devaluation,

just another clearance sale

spunked from Eton Reich

as a mongrel people

worship The Sun.

It rises in a Swiss bank

as stolen nazi gold upon

a fucked up chucked up crown

of brainwash-constrictor snake thorns.

A Poem; “Riff in Am7”

I am part Buffalo.

Extinct. Timeless.

Forever breathing.

The role of philosopher,

as per my limited understanding,

is to pick pockets of proscribed history

in order to unlearn the lessons

taught to our elders by fascists.

I am no engineer.

Science. Mathematics.

Faith forever aflame.

The role of therapist,

as per my limited understanding,

is to illuminate the illusory nature of our

physical understanding of the universe,

taught to us by our grandmothers.

I am no shaman.

No body. No soul.

Just energy and neurones

firing in the face of forty years

of knowledge,

disguised as understanding,

the forever mask of the true self.

Taught by no-one.

Mirrors finally break.

There is no bad luck.

Just graft. Craft.

Sisyphus is happy.

The politics of identity is boring

when staring down the barrel of the void.

No existential crisis in the abyss,

just deep, ancient ghosts cradling me

in their otherness for eternity.

I am no you.

Me. Him.

Them. Whatever, holy man,

lead the flock to slaughter.

Starvation awaits the greedy,

turning tables at Spinoza’s gaff.

As Jesus and Buddha laugh off their asses,

some merely weep.

It’s all fool’s gold.

I am all of us,

we’re ugly,

known that forever.

Look at the vessel;

scarred by home blade,

consensual violence,

take yer best shot,

don’t be a fucking pussy.

Like Mexican food,

we fold differently,

but spices give flavour

to the driest of beans.

Look what we hold.

Past. Present.

Future, forever,

in our hands and,

with it we can create

something beautiful,

if we stop.

A Poem; “An Experience of Nausea”

OG photo taken in Belfast, 2017(?)


The shattered self

and an ill sense of being.

Light a faint cold purple,

accepting of penance and repentance.


Spooked by the death of god

and developing understanding

of a thousand others,

living inside of all of us

every day,

at all times.


Fall into warm familiar darkness,

cosmic sadness.

Oscillator; contentment or resentment?


Utter disgust.

Sheer hell, a construction.




The slow unravelling.


Adequately translate

thought to mouth,

words and tangible,

reality-based action.


Damn the deconstructionists,

who enabled eugenicist mind control.

Clowns weaponising meaninglessness, ignorance.

Fuck poetics.

Constant nails down the blackboard,

third eye squeegee time.


An email written to a friend in “hostile territory” that an email server wouldn’t allow through. Published here as “an echo off the far wall”, as The Hotelier may put it.

Seabraes, Dundee


Apologies once more for the silence in the void, ‘tis not for lack of will or psychic connection, simply space, time and these peculiar things called “emotions” reeking havoc with one’s being. I’ve been thinking of you. I have also finally acquired a grail.

Twenty years or however long after first introduction at your masterly hand, I’ve finally stepped aboard the mothership and own a physical copy of Maggot Brain on 12” vinyl. Having my first spin on a dreich Saturday afternoon with no United to go see or work until later, I drift into another time and space, another wavelength, and I understand things I wished I did long before. Ten weeks deep into twenty years or more of theory, my heart is opening. Praxis > theory. Who knew?

We remain afloat on the east coast, Dundee resembling somewhere more akin to Leipzig, or maybe further east, on a daily basis. It’s set to become a “FREEPORT”, as the fascists turn this island into Singapore or whatever money laundering enterprise these maniacs have in place to rob us blind. On the positive, general strike moves ever closer. All empires die.

I trust Mother Earth has nourished ye from her womb, if not the situations of your current employment and emotional satisfaction. I echo the restlessness ye referred to previously, a general malaise, mortality, a dawning, cosmic waves gathering. One cannot define exactly but something in my stomach has shifted, my soul moved, and I’ve felt your wisdom recently.

My dreams have changed. Where once there was only space for fear, violence and aggression, I’ve been dreaming of protecting the same white horse over consecutive evenings for weeks, when retention of images has occurred. What would Einstein say? Probably advise flipping the record over.

I think I told ye Peggy G died. If not, I’m sorry, but he did. It’s been awful and I feel a shell, bereft, the lingering sound of an octave chord sustaining at high pitch, delusions of grandeur shattered only by the horrors of our shared reality. It may be a salutary lesson in grace, or the death of fear. Maybe both, who knows?

I hope yer familial status is somewhere in the regions between happiness and communicative, as far as I understand these concepts to hold meaning at this time. I FEEL ye but Pearl Jam addressed something about the state of love and trust in some song they ripped from Neil Young once. I don’t trust Eddie Vedder. I trust you.

Once more into the breach, doctor. 

With love.


Wreaking Joy art by Hooligan

WREAKING JOY “demo” is MTAT145, replacing a canned project, and is out now for free/pay-what-you-want download above. They play their first ever show on Sunday (tomorrow) with ENDLESS SWARM, BELOW THE NECK & ASSIMILATE at Rad Apples for JCHC.

JCHC art by Kel


A Poem; “Consistency”





Evergreen consistency

low-key persistence

sees labour turn

to dust and dreams






Pharmaceutical efficiency

corruption-held supremacy

grinds teeth down

to the gums as

the electorate disintegrates.



Theft and misery,

straightness direct

to shareholders.

What a burden

for a fool to take

upon such slender shoulders.






compliments complacency,

progress slow when dealing

cards professionally.





based on dreams.

Imagined narratives help

broken beans process

trauma of the egoic

ignorance of crybabies.





signifies a fear in taking

action over theory.

You’ll be safe

in bubbles as we travel

to the end of history.





Burning books to hide

the truth is the domain of Nazis.


Red fascists.


Choose your battles,

lest they choose you,

as they do us all.

All neoliberal narrative

management makes Thatcher

the true mother of all dissonance.


A Poem; “Pineapple Heed“

Apocalypse in satire

A parody of leadership

Kicking holes in fake hate,

you counterfeits.

Towing the line,

doing yer lines,

standing around in a race against time.

Leading the race in testosterone bro rage,

cannae get a date with people yer own age.

You won’t have a hope when the sirens go off.

It doesn’t really matter who gets the last laugh


Mercedes Benz and gold-rimmed glasses

drawing red lines over social classes.

Fuelling the hate and rage of the masses,

you fucking poisonous inbred racists.

Paving the way for more to discriminate,

“they’ve got a lot to say”

Got a fucking lot to say now, yeah?

I’ll be taking these motherfuckers out all day.


but in line you’ll stay.

We’ve got some broken politricks.


Taking bribes in poisoned gold,

a ticking bomb about to explode.

It’s doesn’t matter about yer shitty weekend,

these pineapple heeds will ensure we all end.

But that doesn’t matter to corporate,

the cops

the bigots who make the law.

They’ll never ken the power o’ just chewing yer jaw.

Break the camel’s back

and draw yer last straws.

We’ll never see the world again

the way we do right now.


a legacy of conquest.

ethnic cleansing before the words “genocide” or “crimes against humanity” existed

the Socratic oath

entry into this realm and the comedown from the ecstasy of pre-human form

the gift and the curse of both

crimes of empire, the royal british legion, standard-bearing, cub scouts

repressed assault; bullies now polis

a stolen football shirt, heroin, double-murder

chords to an old song, four bank accounts.

Duncan’s island descent in strange tongue

flag bastards screaming “progress” as the demons climb the rungs

the rapist. the metal bands. the clowns.

the blackened lungs. the hatred. the loathing. knowledge of how to

“safely use guns”.

high school biology.

that parents lie to their children

the inbreeding of fascist parasites

masquerading as the divine right of

kings. Brasso for brass, silver for blades.

how much I love purp’s face and smile

that a single bite can save a life

a boat trip back from an island to

it’s aggressive hostile neighbour and

a video of a toddler eating humous.

Price Edward Island. Geneva. Venice.

a lack of positive male role models.

the fuckin’ moonboot from Amebix

genius is merely insight, the separation of

art and artist.

church and state.

the impermanent impermanence of

all things for eternity experienced

through a youthfully underdeveloped

palette and how old cunts can

be thanked for brutal lessons.

tough love.

that the fiend club is home tomorrow

that home is where they let you in.

the existential misery of being

a lifelong dundee united supporter.

Love is real.