Identity Verified Thinker in Arts / Literature / Contemporary
Sean Urquhart
Sean Urquhart
I am an experienced writer who has worked across a variety of mediums including: screenplay, script editing, prose, poetry,and novelization. I am particularly interested in psychogeography and the scope it gives both academics and creative writers to effectively trade elements of their fields.
 

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Jul. 16, 2014 3:55 pm
Where will it all end? The nightly rhetorical monologue to the ceiling, From the relative comfort of the bed, Where will it all end? Born alone, die alone. The stark reality is hard to bear. Too much reality, Reality dull and leaden. The fear coming in increments.  Read More
May 17, 2014 11:16 am
It is in those opiated moments, with a few beers and brandies aboard that I said a lot of things i neither care to remember, nor really meant in a sincere sense. In vino veritas my arse, in other words. Ultra vivid violent anger instead of calm serence acceptance of pain. My old man had a high pain threshold, so have I. In those Tramadol years, I lost days to sweating memories. It was a wonder I...  Read More
Apr. 28, 2014 5:03 pm
Art. Three simple letters. Though art is far from simple. The post-post modern, fast-twitch version 2.0 of the notion of culture is often infantile and entirely playful. Playful is fine, in my humble opinion, but when it becomes the overriding zeitgeist (in perpetuity) it becomes tiresome and elliptical. So far, so obvious. The Sewell conservative option is the bi-polar coin toss opposite....  Read More
Jan. 24, 2014 11:16 pm
A new engagement, a fully operative, though clouded optimism, And yet you still persist in your little boy lost militarism. i remembered you when you simply engaged, spoke about the present, drank wine and now I see the shadow self I had suspected all along. hating to be the harbinger of an uncomfortable future self  Read More
Sep. 4, 2013 8:18 pm
Carter's sleep coma was rudely disturbed by the gnawing of the present, he woke to sweat sodden clothes and the dissociative state that often accompanied his over-indulgence of weed, those moments where he struggled with basic mental tasks, PIN number recall and the like, he often worried in these waking, fuzzy seconds if he was becoming psychotic or experiencing early onset dementia brought...  Read More
Sep. 4, 2013 8:15 pm
Self-Combusting in Tynemouth The weeks of recovery, once I'd shaken off the overly-inquisitive local constabulary, were made on the coast, Cullercoats, with baby-step walks by painful increments to Tynemouth and North Shields. I'd shelved any notion of past and focussed on the present, some of which was down to strong opioids and the distraction of a love newly discovered every morning, one of...  Read More
Aug. 18, 2013 2:31 pm
Only within the self, can joy be found, It would seem in these atomised, Self-focussed hours. The rest is mere distraction, The fabled bread and circuses of the now.  Read More
Jun. 12, 2013 2:21 pm
The sun illuminates those dark areas of the psyche; those horribly vulnerable high resolution images of self that convince oneself that it is not worth carrying on with the charade of life. At least it seems that way as a pint of lager is tipped over my jeans and I get the blame, although it was the complainer who has actually done the deed. The 15 awkward minutes of muttered threats and...  Read More
May 14, 2013 4:30 pm
Poaching Eternity: the Bull Inn, Paisley The former coaching inn houses a selection of Saturday topers and one enters through the thick curtains of cigarette smoke and street talk is relayed through slightly fuddled syntax, making sense to those who have altered their consciousness, chemically, to the same level. To the sober, it is low cadences of south of the Clyde, overspill Glaswegian with...  Read More
Apr. 20, 2013 10:45 am
The dreamscape was even unappealing, as dull as the streets I was walking on. Some homeless geezer gave me a riddle as I palmed off a couple of pounds for him to get a beer. Paul was less than complementary about my mental arithmetic and I got pissed off and went for several beers myself to leaven the dead weight of my own pathetic existence. The big man was in good/bad form, no personal mail...  Read More
Apr. 19, 2013 5:26 am
The municipal tennis courts; an odd investment in a town where the rainfall usually exceeds 1000 millilitres annually. The tempting blue skies resolutely give rise to temporary confidence and the lie of hope. The jazz, the jazz. Monk and Davis, what did they know that we don't? Plenty, by the sound of it. Ellington had to chivvy his manager to release $10 when on tour in '69 or was it '68,...  Read More
Apr. 18, 2013 10:54 am
Being stoic is only one tactic, Smiling at my inability to shake the past, Or admit to my constant failings, Is another. I see the spring arrive, Winds still howling freedom, As freight trains head south, To the concrete hive of cash, London and the city state of square mile finance, Big Dave has just escaped the clutches, Of that ludicrous world, Of almost sci-finance, Fictive,...  Read More
Apr. 18, 2013 10:47 am
Often I get the urge, to hurl the misbehaving laptop, Instead I offer a volley of invective into the ether, Directed at the pathetic self, The self that has little control, The self that mouths word salads, And then regrets the fact, That the neighbours didn't hear, At least with an audience one is alive, Even a complaint or threat of retaliation, Is acknowledgement of one's existence. ...  Read More
Apr. 3, 2013 9:20 am
It was in the look down the snib, Through occluded lenses, That said it all, That framed the lack of empathy.  Read More
Apr. 1, 2013 12:25 am
Like a budget Bukowski, Or some other vicarious thrill seeking consumer, Buying the sizzle, The rock and the roll, The prussic acid of the soul-eroding silence, Between the noise and fury of the nothingness, Between you and me, Between now and immortality, Which is simply negation of the here and now. Like a cheap Greer, spouting pub bore feminism, As the gins flow, The half-pint I...  Read More
Mar. 27, 2013 6:49 am
Oh, Ayn Rand and your ilk, You have much to answer for, Not to mention the utter hypocrisy of your lives, Especially Ms Rand's, A welfare recipient, when all the Objectivist pals Faded from the scene as her finances crashed, Not reliable notions at the best of times, Money being the most notional of all. Mere tokens, In an ever more tokenistic, Ever contracting global village  Read More
Mar. 26, 2013 8:13 am
The air is redolent with cant, Most of it my own, I can't quite live up to my own ideals, Not that I had many in the first place.  Read More
Mar. 26, 2013 8:12 am
The glib tell you to move on, That you are lucky, fortunate or some such. Inexperienced words from unempathic faces, Words taking the place of meaning, Meaning of any sort. They've seldom had to rebuild a shattered life, Or run from abuse and control. They've not suffered at the hands Of one who denies, creates mayhem And then blithely gets on with their spoiled, Pointless little life  Read More
Mar. 25, 2013 7:59 am
The double-locked door. The gimlet eyed nurse. The realisation. The visit. Sectioning. The Chemical Cosh. Presenting problems. In the arms of Mother Pharma. All but a prison. Community treatment orders. And then spat back out of the machinery into an indifferent so-called society. Rotting away on ever-contracting benefits, as the poorest are squeezed, culled and stepped over by the likes of Ian...  Read More
Mar. 22, 2013 1:01 pm
As night incrementally became day, And as London became Newcastle, The dull ache was there, In the head, the groin, the guts, The weekend had been arduous, And my days were numbered. When the final couplet was written, The ink barely dry, Widdrington Station giving way to Acklington, Berwick, Dunbar, Longniddry, Home a notional blot on the landscape, Dried blood on my scalp, 4am night...  Read More
Mar. 21, 2013 6:52 am
Was there ever a pint that I didn't enjoy? Washing my thrapple and my brain with the pleasant numbing sensation, all the while lulling and guying myself into a sleep of the deepest, envied death. Dave's alabaster, caring, artistic hands weaved modern folk tales wrought from his previous life as a stockbroker. With his Orthodox beard and his army and navy cast-offs, he had a quiet authority...  Read More
Mar. 5, 2013 9:48 pm
Just because I have a name, Doesn't mean I am anyone, Just the sum of a few DNA strands, Or so some reductionists would have us believe. Just because thoughts are sometimes conscious, Doesn't make them real, Except in your own soap opera, The hyperreal shock of the NOW. Looking from this distance, Loch Lomond in my viewing goggles, Distant hills, Buried wraiths on the chilly ether, I...  Read More
Feb. 21, 2013 9:23 pm
I read the headline, As I tried to recover from the emotional fall-out. Of a hard, hard week. It never seems to let up, Fortunately there is the music, Family and friends. I read the headline, RIP Kevin Ayres, The Soft Machine goes on forever, Immortalised in elegant lines, My psyche forever touched, My life forever enriched. I pour the rest of the beer down the sink, In a cleansing...  Read More
Feb. 13, 2013 9:18 pm
I was looking at the scrum, Nostalgic for the present, Paradox in the cold thick air, Guinness was downed, And promises kept, Joe and his cohorts held my interest, And for a moment I wished I'd played The game, I was too weak in those days, Wee, asthmatic, scared, dazed, Wanting to bow out and hide, From the Lochgelly tawse. Those far-off days, The worst days of my life by far, ...  Read More
Feb. 6, 2013 5:33 am
I hated the uniform, Green, scratching the skin, Boots too-tight, Insufficient kit. The orders barked, Stand at ease, Stand easy. The Sergeant with the whisky breath, The stare through battle-weary, bloodshot orbs, Singling me out, And then asking me to get him more booze, Just for the afternoon. On parade with a drunk, Was better than a sober, cruel General, Sipping his scotch, ...  Read More
Feb. 6, 2013 5:30 am
And I saw some ungrammatical words scrawled on a floating piece of remarkable paper... And all the time that I was there, there was a sense of being viewed from afar, as a botanist may regard a mayfly, an odd, indifferent eye, not exactly God-like, but still watching my every motion, I felt the presence, briefly and then I repaired to the bar, as was my want in those alcohol-numbed days of...  Read More
Feb. 3, 2013 3:03 am
Never was there a time without anger, Not for long. We never had it so bad, And that was back in the greed-filled 80s. It's bloody worse now.  Read More
Jan. 26, 2013 8:50 pm
And it was in the small print, Etched on faces dying with self-fear, Soaked in years of neglect, Sherry-casked dreams, Empire hungover ex-RAF pub owners, Talking down in a mealy-mouthed fashion, Drinking with infidels like me, Whilst carrying the cards of the enemy, Behind the lines I fight, With a smile on my face, And malt of the month at 2 quid a pop. Anyone for hypocrisy, ...  Read More
Jan. 21, 2013 7:02 am
Ducking and Weaving I scrawl on a beer mat and wink at an old stager at the bar. It’s too early for a session on the beer. I have a quick half and head for the street. St Lawrence road offers up mini rivers and sullen smokers never getting accustomed to the indoor smoking ban. The world’s my home? I walk arthritically down the ramshackle steps to the Tyne Bar. The rain abates a tad and some...  Read More
Jan. 21, 2013 7:01 am
Disunited Kingdom of the Mind On the fringes of the Euro. Currency at least remains resolutely pound Sterling, as does the beer, reliable real ale. No homogenisation. The river gives hope in its splendour, viewed from the massive IMAX windows of The Free Trade pub. Sunlight on Tyneside. Summer in England’s borderlands. The gentle bubbling conversations range from football to politics to...  Read More

New Book Exposes Darwin's Greatest Secret

In his new book Nullius in Verba: Darwin’s Greatest Secret, Thinker Mike Sutton reveals in compelling and convincing detail that the theory of natural selection was not independently discovered by Charles Darwin.

Sutton’s sharp objective eye of the criminal investigator and academic creates a vivid and authentic depiction of the times, the characters, and the cover-up that endured for over 130 years – until now.

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