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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Mar. 10, 2009 4:51 am
13/02/08. 1300 PM. De Montford Hall, Leicester. “Syphilis…syphilis…dihydrocodeine…1...1...1..trichloroethane…2..” The usual win-treble of sound engineering in-jokes issued from the 40K rig on-stage at Leicester’s premier concert venue. Steph McGee sighed as he lit another of an unbroken string of fairly toxic roll-ups. Another town/venue/cheap hotel/hangover/Peruvian marching powder procurement...  Read More
Mar. 10, 2009 4:40 am
Part One: All I need is a pint, a pie and a bit of a wash…Utrecht Fragments… The drones filled his every cell; he was possessed with the urge. He reached out his arms and formed random movements, slashing at the grey oxygen surrounding him. The greyness of the walls in his habitation echoed his mood; his neutrality for a moment interrupted with the seemingly violent mood swing that appeared to...  Read More
Mar. 10, 2009 4:39 am
“Strangers greet me by my first name and offer me on-the –spot credit ratings, people on the street eye me with a mixture of contempt and pity, pubs that I frequented as a callow teen are now style palaces, where only the correct social shibboleth will allow entry, songs are available to buy ethereally and the whole hyper-kinetic world of New Media and Technology is enslaving rather than...  Read More
Mar. 10, 2009 12:36 am
INTRO: If only I could stifle the scream. (Various non-sequitors jostle) December 2008. The hand touches the forehead, the skin dry, cracked. The head aches with the interminable life sentence of lonely boredom. Empty headed, electricity that once crackled in a restlessly creative brain fizzles as the synapses fail to fire. Empty headed. The hand runs its course over the bloated physique. Once...  Read More
Mar. 10, 2009 12:23 am
She was at it again. Asserting the sort of third rate tabloid shite-hawkery that she knew wound me up. I barked a bit and practically spat out what I had to say, rhetoric I shoved in her face as my stomach grumbled and the bile rose from my ulcer-scarred guts. Outside, the grey Oxford skyline heralded another day of a long winter. She was still at it, as she lit another fag and looked through me...  Read More
Mar. 8, 2009 11:20 pm
A muse for the end-time: Deathly voices/musique concrete. Rapture politik vs the real: Dead fingers clutch ATM statements: Too late... THC inhaled en masse: Over-medicated, government-prescribed, Leeched of purpose. Elective obscurity: The neglect of the herd, Half-lives lived, Marginal: toxic headlines spew, Heads empty, The prose of defeat, The vision through Gordon Brown's other eye...  Read More
Mar. 8, 2009 10:14 pm
"All the same collisions...for the self same reasons: bad faith, split-level life, old hippy shit, rattling around a schizoid mind, overladen with too much useless info.. I'm running up the harbour, not so much as a stricken pound in my rain-sodden breeks, old trainers filled with sand and 5-a-side recollections, singing my lungs out in an exorcism of romance of all kinds. Expunging so-called 7...  Read More
Mar. 4, 2009 4:11 pm
“I felt like I was drifting Zelig-like, always in the background, whether it was Pete Doherty’s sister trying to have a political argument, then copping a sly feel, or having slept with some lassie who turns up as an Ivor Cutler rejector in the lyric of a Franz Ferdinand tune. There, but not in any zeitgeisty important sense, or even trying to get mileage our of any of the tedious stuff I had...  Read More
Mar. 4, 2009 4:07 pm
Freedom by chaining us all to the worship of eternal youth, And the New Media Romance with Capital. Freedom by constantly reminding you of your disposable nature, This is the zeitgeist, This seems to be the zeitgeist, This is the fountainhead of my fears. A war fought merely to re-elect, The spectre of a Falklands past times ten (at least) Freedom if your country holds the desired...  Read More
Mar. 4, 2009 4:04 pm
If I didn’t care about you, And you didn’t about me, We could be uncaring together; perpetually If I didn’t love you, And you didn’t love me, We could be unloving towards each other; eternally If I didn’t hate you, And you didn’t hate me, We could make a future together; eventually.  Read More
Mar. 4, 2009 3:59 pm
In a society so fast-moving it could almost be described as hyper kinetic, you could be forgiven for thinking that this progress could positively affect the populace. However, much of this motion is taken up with consumption and with the pursuit of the purely material, the economic zeitgeist, “miracle” of the 1980’s which still has political precedence in the 21st century. The end of...  Read More
Mar. 4, 2009 3:52 pm
The Hermetic Tabloid. (An experiment…) “Do anything long enough and you will either expire, become inured to the labour involved, or in that strangely modern alchemic way, become a legend. Not in the mould of a great statesman, altruist, artist, philosopher, poet…but rather in the tasteless and ephemeral husk of the celebrity. And, likely, the celebrity that is famous for fame’s own sake....  Read More
Mar. 3, 2009 12:35 pm
Information overload. An assault of over-stimulated senses hard-wired to an overactive brain. Money lost, transferred, won and earned at a key stroke. The inability to process the myriad of shiny PR-wrought images that assail tired eyes from arrival to departure from the daily slop and grind of work in the hyper-kinetic cityscape. Londinium la, la, Londinium . The curse of the aspirational...  Read More
Mar. 2, 2009 7:26 pm
The road sharply bissects the memory of knife-carrying thugs on the stairs of the library. The long buried factory where glue-high skinheads were willing to eviscerate for the sake of casual Saturday night amusement. The concrete burying blood treacle and chemical experiment in one arc of supposed progress. Glen Street, Barrhead. The library an omnipresent beacon of shelter in an otherwise...  Read More
Mar. 2, 2009 1:31 pm
The constant kinesis of shifting personalities, jostling for space in the lacunae of his algorhythmic brain. The face in the shaving mirror: otherworldly, unknown, extrinsic. He was back to some kind of recognition: today at least. The hair thick and framing a heavily bearded face, an unemployed magus without portfolio, hooded eyes flickering with hermetic knowledge and the burden of unwanted...  Read More
Feb. 28, 2009 7:43 am
Living and dying in public. Slow capitulation to the repear in a constant newsfeed. Poor, pathetic Jade Goody, PR occultist Clifford a spectre at the feast, the tawdry spectacle of a very public life and death. The black arts of the spin magus in full satanic majesty: base metal to gold: and thence to dust... A future memory frags its way through 12 O'clock gloom, putting to bed the odyssey that...  Read More
Feb. 27, 2009 10:21 pm
Hurtling under The Clyde, towards the next port of call, taking an odd, almost elliptical route, perceived shithole pubs first, relaxation earned at stop 15, I let thought give way to action, zen suddenness as opposed to grand plan. Fabienne seemed ok with all this machismo, her gentle French/Spanish crossover culture spilling willingly into Chris and I's English/Scots/Irish alliance, friendship...  Read More
Feb. 27, 2009 5:42 pm
Fingers wrap glasses, Subway capsules scurry, Booze rats on an august Saturday, Grain and grape jostle, Optics entrance, Casks leak the analgesic of choice, Conversation requires translation, Or maybe drink eases Babel-ed voices, Into fevered ears.  Read More
Feb. 27, 2009 5:34 pm
The phone call...nervous words exchanged between old drinking buddies, lives entwined by the same relationship SOS of the human spirit, seeking to disembark from the leaking marital vessel." problem, Chris, come up, starting in the middle of the day we can booze our personal politics problem, mate, get the flight up and I'm yer man..." 15 stops on the Glasgow...  Read More
Feb. 27, 2009 4:44 pm
The nuptial Gordian knot untied, No self-immolation, No fanfare, Just a relieved breath out.  Read More
Feb. 27, 2009 4:16 pm
Rituals. Part of Gildea's firmament, his base. Immolation of data, memory-committed streets and houses, locales. The forensic occultism of a open, yet paradoxically blinkered mind. A hermetic investigation into self and others; an attempt at modern alchemy. Facts translated into the motherlode of information; his living, breathing files. A grimoire of lives. Lives dissected, uncovered, spells...  Read More
Feb. 27, 2009 4:13 pm
Collective amnesia. That was what the zeitgesit seemed to suggest; a necessary dementia. A means of escape from the supposed clutches of today's invisible bogey man; the failing economy. The Comic avoided the tawdry realities of the herd and pursued his vision, part comic-book grotesque, part anomie pus leaking from the acidic reaches of his imaginings. Freddie Nietzsche: a constant pal and his...  Read More
Feb. 26, 2009 8:10 am
Pre-war heights, Apart from some stray Berserker genes, The diet that armour-clads arteries. Beatific Poles in sports gear, Christ in soiled trackies and ill-fitting slip-ons, The mis-matched uniform of the streets. Breakfast: Charing Cross Guest House. Faces scorn the master, Even as Lent emerges, Corpulent faces scoff fry-ups, As the messiah-in-waiting, Tries to map out an...  Read More
Feb. 25, 2009 11:29 am
No cryptic Pythagorean unravelling, No Fermattian mapping out, Not simply biological, Not bottle, glass or stout.  Read More
Feb. 25, 2009 11:28 am
Milky lens, Difficult words, Unheard utterances, A paralysis. Tinnitus passages, The hissing of damaged eardrums, Deafening roars, Demented fitful sleep. Lungs gulp, Muscle loose over frangible bone, Skin dessicated, raw, Memory a distant continent.  Read More
Feb. 25, 2009 11:16 am
Don't turn away from illumination, That light at the end of tunnel, The end which you entered by. Keep to that nourishment, That sensory impairment; Love... The madness of the Age of Self: Glib words rallying in a still-open mind, Cynicism held at bay, stilled. And so I turned and moved towards her, Letting her catch me, catch her, One and one from none. And I...  Read More
Feb. 23, 2009 11:26 pm
Corrosive cynicism circled my tight skull, as I tried to retain a vestige of decency, not easy when you're drinking your way around an unfamiliar hyper-real zip, zip, zip dreamscape of a city. The rush of the hyper-kinetic citizen, moving in this authoritarian theme park, to the tune of the cash-till ding and the slavery and madness of the working life of this Disneyland-esque misadventure ride,...  Read More
Feb. 23, 2009 7:56 pm
And so The Comic enters the cosy scene.... Suit rank with the deep scent of his thrusting masculinity, a deep, animal scent, he walks into Hillhead Public Library, a distracted air of the truly dangerous about him, focused on a mythical middle distance. Kim Il Sung eyes. Dead cod on a Beveridge slab on Byres road. Pockets filled with every known concealable blade. 7 of the wee lads. Razors in the...  Read More
Feb. 23, 2009 7:54 pm
Locked in the porcelain dungeon, straining, no excavating one's bowels, as images threaten to blur reality's thin membrane, Gildea finds his punchline. Yesss a hissing of relief, as silver spinners fly, tugging at his peripheral vision. It had been a night of two very different halfs; one joyous, the other bizarre and mystifying, an Irish playlet of dada-ist absurdity. And here he was, guts...  Read More
Feb. 23, 2009 1:44 pm
Thomastown Mark was in full fuddled Blarney flow, all anecdotes of the then still-living Iain D MacGeachy AKA John Martyn's prodigous alco-narco intake and lute and harp guitar making. Exhausted as I was ,the talisman of Theremin was uttered, a pathway into the inner sanctum of Thomastown Mark's hippy dingley dell of twilight middle-aged adolescence. The Rev was deep in conference with Everyman...  Read More
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