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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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
Feb. 20, 2009 7:25 am
As the train trundles from the G78 outpost of The Glasgow Empire, it was there , from childhood, travelling in wheezing diesel rolling stock, through trembling adolescence in ultra modern sleek BR lozenges 'til now. The white ranks of prerpared porcelain, awaiting dispatch to suburban bathroom, farmhouse, workplace and pub. Shanks' finest. In its silent, dormant magnificence, a monument to...  Read More
Feb. 20, 2009 5:39 am
Dundee. Truncated form. The Rev circling the bar, keeping his oblique tactics close to his chest. Trying to maintain a Zen-like state of alacrity in a half-canned stupor. 130am. The doorman corners me; reptilian, limp-wristed, finger-clicking and pointing his effeminate claw at the ludicrous cover charge, a sly fiver for entry to this subterranean pleasure dungeon. To his left a land leviathan...  Read More
Feb. 20, 2009 4:42 am
The exiles? "Aye...middle and working class communists were their own worst enemies, by taking tyrants, fetishising them, they eventually alienated themselves from the mainstream...destroyed their once powerful voting base to become a fringe outfit for genteel erudite tea-drinking bufferish...." Skelton tailed off, lost in another tangent. Typical pub exchange; a little sober translation...  Read More
Feb. 19, 2009 1:14 pm
THE HEALING Like sweets from a stranger, Kind words in that tender moment, Between the worlds; Of chaos and peace. NOT ACTUALLY BROKEN The slight odyssey is over, Light leaks into a slightly dulled now , With the realisation that it never left me; The self unbowed, unbloodied, Not actually broken at all  Read More
Feb. 19, 2009 11:44 am
If Saturday's Oran Mor represented dubious Viagra for the soul, then The Ferry and The Fisherman's in particular, was most definitely Tuesday's dose of Bromide; a limp and enervating atmosphere, with some overly hoppy real ale, so down and the hatch and off at Plumpton for us. It was nearing the witching hour and by extension, it looked as if us psychonauts were heading for the princes to frogs,...  Read More
Feb. 19, 2009 11:21 am
First stop on this seeming road away from ruin, was conversely a trip to source some litres of gluggable Italian red for The Rev's gantry(liquid version of a burnt offering?). And then my bete noire, medium-haul bus journey, on the modern equivalent of steerage. Typical toilet, rank with vomit and other unspecified human effluvia; Edinburgh Fringe refugees; day trip shoppers, bag-laden with...  Read More
Feb. 17, 2009 8:02 pm
"The walk of shame" A phrase that crops up regularly within the cavernous environs of the secular booze chapel now known as Oran Mor ; Merely a circumnavigation around a massive oblong in search of a late-night lust liaison . Human apes in the throes of weekend Westender alcohol-fuelled desire. Not unique, granted, but nevertheless a human pursuit in a fairly apposite setting, conspicuous...  Read More
Feb. 17, 2009 5:54 pm
Who will be my Columbine? Will hers and I's thoughts collide? Even as our bodies combine, To dance the dance of time. My entropy, Will be the end of me, And as the wine flows, The end of this tango. The pair never met, This Pierrot resigns, The costume fading, Painted masque/drunker stutter, Brando mumble, Dead cod eyes.  Read More
Feb. 17, 2009 3:38 pm
He had every rare and, to me, irrelevant copy of every psychotic WWII/Vietnam/Korean/ Camdodian conflict fantasy comic book printed between 1975 and 1982. He was that scrupulous in his enthusiasms. " Your country doesn't need you...because you amount to little more than...a cunt" Was emblazoned on a cut n' paste caustically monochrome defiling of a Roy Lichtenstein 20x20 feet, in a room desribed...  Read More
Feb. 17, 2009 9:16 am
"Dwarfed by the towering monuments to commerce that conquer the very space they stand on, an almost ley-line-like triangulation of oppression exists to mock the poorest cousin: Dundee, looking up seems the response of the gaping tourist to the alienating environment of Brutalism and neon effulgence: Manhattan. In the shadow of oil-rich Aberdeen to the North; Capital city of Edinburgh to the...  Read More
Feb. 16, 2009 6:34 am
I can't quite breathe...large-bosomed all-American white bread WASP to my right, Statue of Liberty to my left, pleasing noises in wraparound 360 degree technicolour synaesthetic headphones/eyeshades..But first...HOMELAND SECURITY Philadelphia...narco-thoughts spinning wildly like guitar figures from Lloyd-Langton. Passport 'photog not corresponding to current disguise. Fingerprint burned off by...  Read More
Feb. 16, 2009 12:01 am
DOES IT RHYME? The flicker in the eye, the longing. The beard stroke, masking the ID crises. I'm still as tense and wound as 20 years ago. Still falling for the same old hackery, Waiting for The Fall, The Drop, The final, final couplet. (Dundee August 2008) NOSE OUT OF JOINT/MEMORY FRAGMENT #4 It's only a number, I'm just a scrolled option on a VDU. But I still feel Atlas-burdened, As I watch...  Read More
Feb. 15, 2009 8:52 pm
"It's only a fucking bounce landing, the boy only nearly got brained with a fucking oxygen canister...fuck, it's only fucking words, lady!" the words loosed in a 747 full with returning septics and odd psychonauts like the bug-eyed utterer of such a torrent. There he was, eyes blazing, high altitude hijinks a memory as the jumbo came to an abrupt halt, he, already on his feet berating the...  Read More
Feb. 15, 2009 6:43 pm
And here I am, maybe for the first time...Maybe this is the feeling that I should've had last time around. As the bar reverberates to "Love is in the air" and 'Sdair has a wry look on his slit-eyed unconsconcious DeNiro visage, I laugh inside, smile breaking through my old testament beard, draining the last of my Guinness and wishing I was somewhere else, or with her... my thoughts trail like...  Read More
Feb. 15, 2009 6:43 pm
"I don't write poetry..." Roger paused between sharp inhalations of a tightly rolled fag "...I write words " he continued, as me, Tam The Brother and Vol. Con looked on in bemusement. "I mean...yewww.." he tilted his prop fag at me and drawled in Northamptonese at me "Yewww've been published ainnncha? Annnnnd..." I knew where he was going with his monologue, trying to puncture the fact that...  Read More
Feb. 15, 2009 6:42 pm
Joke number 2456; A man walks into himself at the bar... Another fruitless night, garbled conversations jostling for position with conscious thought, all mired in drink-addled bitterness and cant. Business as usual then, pards...Searching for lines to dig myself out of the usual pitfalls, before the Chinese consolation prize and the long, cold walk of shame home, to spout crap at the 4 walls and...  Read More
Feb. 15, 2009 6:41 pm
Fractured:Easing into uncomfortable silence. Timely:The intervention wholly unlike Midas. I travel alone, I empty my head of unreason, And tell myself, I might be beastly, In spite of my good side, That I know exists, Beneath the patina of chaos and madness.  Read More
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