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. 27, 2010 8:28 am
It is easy after all; I do it everyday, And everyday someone dies by my hands, By evening I'm looking at scoresheets, Spinning fates through the roulette present, Bridge hands taking on life stretches, Lives of their own in spades, hearts, clubs and aces, 4 compass points. And then the waking, The unveiling, Another day of erasing, Human meat dispatched, Severe medicine for terminal cases, Wet...  Read More
Feb. 27, 2010 8:23 am
And so I'm alone again with only pain and a constant reminder of disappointment to carry me through the wee hours. Brinsley carried the 4/4 beat on his skulled thinking chair, a regretful rhythm overladen with fears for what little future lay ahead. He had come back. Him. The son-figure. The man of the japes. The inverted magician. Two salt-tear lines cascaded down the Mage's face. The haunting...  Read More
Feb. 27, 2010 7:52 am
The face at the bar, the shaving mirror, the dark reflection, Is it really you, can you see yourself through the murky lenses? Time was, you were the man of a 1,000 faces, all of them oblique, Strategies of intent, red herrings, false trails, memories of self; Self-created unrealities. And now you say; Please let it end, Please let it end, As history is erased and recreated yet again. And the...  Read More
Feb. 27, 2010 4:56 am
It's that time of the lingering night, a time when minutes are counted in nano-seconds and conversations from the past are put through a mass spectrometer of analysis, as daemons are found in empty wine bottles and heads are emptied onto paper and into Word documents. Hangovers mutate into self-loathing epistles, bite-sized chunks of misery, to be consumed cold. Last night's health-wrecking fast...  Read More
Feb. 27, 2010 4:03 am
The Perspective Building. Towering over Waterloo Station, ex-MI6 and now recast as a triumph over taste and restraint pushing its penthouses towards Venusian heights. Such an unimaginative spoon-feed-and-think-for-you title. The identikit concierge is doubtless an ex-spook retainer, pin money for signing visitors into the building. The siege mentality of the super-rich. And of course the...  Read More
Feb. 27, 2010 1:21 am
It's hard to know who are, Buried in all this city slurry, Hard not to fall between the cracks, Pavements hard and unforgiving, Pause for general worry, As the ulcers leak in your gut. It's just a job, they say, It's just a job that pays, The result is all that matters, In this live-long day...  Read More
Feb. 26, 2010 5:52 pm
Reading your future from a page, how apt, how Shakespearean. The words revealing little other than past misdemeanours recurring in a looped present. DNA molecules, double helix, infinity. You try to create a sigil to direct the magick and only a scrawling beetle emerges from your tired and tight drunken fingers. Doctor's text. Handy for forging prescriptions, but little else. The day has shrunken...  Read More
Feb. 25, 2010 5:06 am
The Portobello Star; Brinsley had made it as far as Portobello Road, a long haul as muscle, sinew and tissue was stretched painfully over the course. Saturday; The market stall holders were peddling everything from flea-bitten grandmother's tat as vintage clothing to strange devices to stimulate the scalp. As he crossed the threshold into The Star, he spotted Patrick the Tip, omnipresent Racing...  Read More
Feb. 25, 2010 4:59 am
The BB looks out at virginal snow-coated concrete and sighs with a full stomach and a head full of whisky forgetfulness. The fug of mild intoxication vying with the coffee the Famous Grouse was buried in the brown swirls of. Uppers and downers. Levelling? He turns to the 'phone; mute, no messages. Friends had long since fallen away to separate, atomised lives and London was no longer the escape...  Read More
Feb. 25, 2010 4:58 am
You see him, again. It was Tottenham last week, flashing eyes, back-slapping, too-close-for-comfort physical contact. Then it was Dulwich, out there near the public school coming through the dandelion haze on the common, hailing you, asking if you were alright, earning a crust. And now, south east, Bridge, bleeding Canterbury and there he is with the Kentish pikeys, firing out lines about his...  Read More
Feb. 25, 2010 2:09 am
The Biscuit Boy stood by the Templars' grave. He let freezing digits trace an outline in the mosaic of moss and stone. Remembered Brinsley's sage past advice and lit a cigar, blowing some banishing smoke to the still air. It had been only a week back in the economic wastes of the north and already he was feeling a tug in a direction other than inward to his old manor of pubs, bookies, odd rituals...  Read More
Feb. 23, 2010 3:42 am
Nudging along the mortal remains, I see The White Mage and I falter; The past meets the present in an inky blot. My time is not his, He stalks the silence, As I dance amongst the stones, The wraiths of weavers and drinking academy bodies, Molecules of their breath in the stilly air. He has left this place, His DNA remains, Ash, as I breakfast in the ruins, Spin and fall, To the rhythm of...  Read More
Feb. 23, 2010 3:34 am
The Dooslan Stane stands in its own field of occult geometry. An erratic glacial part of the firmament of weavers and megalithic significance. its circle encompasses 5 tollbooths and it's easy to miss it on a tuppenny whiz through Brodie Park. It greets The Caledonian Minstrel, The Biscuit Boy as Brinsley called him on his return to his manor. His stagger up Goldhawk Road terminated in a paranoid...  Read More
Feb. 22, 2010 5:31 am
The all-day headache. Light distorts painfully through tight eyelids. Sun unreasonably magnified through train capsule windows. You take another sip of ersatz spring water, a trademarking of nature which makes you wince. Some swiz, that which falls from the skies being more expensive than supermarket lager. Oh, the cosmic comedy of it all. You turn to the blank faced man on the 915AM Tube....  Read More
Feb. 22, 2010 5:30 am
Misery's flipside; The dark illuminates, The womb-like occult pre-birthing silence, The feel of scalp-tingling first words, The life ever-after, Gifts of unknown things, Unasked for, Unbidden, Gods in hidden gutters, Statues revealing nothing, Full glasses tipped back, Moments of pleasure, Then the Light.  Read More
Feb. 22, 2010 4:16 am
And again your existence is called into question, By a screen-bound drone, reluctant to offer much, Beyond the merest of courtesies. You feel the bile rise, From gut to gullet, And the fearful adrenaline, That heralds anger or pain, The ulcer. The coming cancer. The breakdown. More of yesterday's ashen leftovers, Anger kept in check just long enough, To do you more damage, To keep the dread...  Read More
Feb. 22, 2010 4:08 am
They offer you kind words wrapped in barbed wire, Chemical coshes suspended in sweet syrup, Unwanted advice at the wrong time, Credit where none is due. Overhead migration patterns, As you remain in an earthbound circuit, Diminished by day, Lithium lensed dreams by night. You are free; Free to be a wage slave, Or have the unremitting greyness, Of the welfare fiasco surprise. They offer you...  Read More
Feb. 20, 2010 2:43 am
Brinsley looks unbelievingly at the ancient Baird folly and sees and hears some Antipodean criminal being given a puff piece on some channel or other. The arms of Morpheus are no longer encircling him and the first stabs of arthritis allied to his spectrum of aliments are sub-dermally conjuring their dark arts. The Caledonian Minstrel is now cast against type and has taken on a deathmask. His...  Read More
Feb. 20, 2010 2:00 am
Dining on ash, Looking for any sort of nourishment, Waiting for an ordinary saviour, One to deliver me out of the bejewelled daymare And into the golden dawn.  Read More
Feb. 20, 2010 1:57 am
The gauzy film of Morpheus hushes sleep, Urges rest to febrile brow, Brings down the curtain of night, At any time of the day. The pain eases, terminates for a spell, The occult opioids, Scrying through a clear glass, Banishing the human condition, To the fringes, The margins, A small grey hiatus.  Read More
Feb. 20, 2010 1:51 am
It's 830AM and The White Mage is in his thinking chair, running fevered hands over lacquered skull arm rests. The 'script had long since diminished and Doc Goldthorpe could only overlook the more than sufficient Morphine leaving his surgery via the magical pad for that one last time. Your tales of Mossad intrigue and your Israeli ex-wife could only enthrall for a limited spell. Your appeals to...  Read More
Feb. 20, 2010 12:59 am
Soupy synthesised strings usher in a new-ish day, the milksop lyrics tease the aural canals with bitter-sweet recollections of manufactured romance that been with us for millenia. Consent to wage lovely wars until Hallmark trademarked it and traduced Byronic intensity to 5 line couplets that aggravate the gullet. Byron, to be honest, wasn't on Brinsley's list. The tradition of the Irish folk was...  Read More
Feb. 19, 2010 3:39 am
The minute jewels of sputum hit your jacket, disbelieving, you raise your head up and gaze at the whirling jeering dreadlocked dervish in his robes of insanity. Turnpike Lane Tube; a mid-morning lull as your interview suit is all-but ruined. The dervish continues, jet spheres rolling in their sockets, the stench of neglect and grass issuing from the sullied cotton turban. Pseudo-Ethiopian...  Read More
Feb. 19, 2010 12:12 am
At the circuit board Underground map, Brinsley pauses, his morning alternative surgery at The Castle has given him the edge, pain management with Dry Blackthorn and Jenny's sulphate memoirs all component parts of the holistic O'Donovan treatment. Peering at the veins encircling the heart of the Griffin itself, arterial feeds into the city beast's invisible organ of life, his own journey through...  Read More
Feb. 18, 2010 10:43 pm
He looks through the drugs formulary, spectacled crab eyes scuttling over page after page of SSRI, sedative hypnotic, tricyclic anti-depressant, mood stabiliser and in the case of the current patient, a placebo. Exercise until you ache. Eat fish. Join a social club. Find a dance partner. You cease to care when he asks you what you write about. Gazing through the network of wires in the tempered...  Read More
Feb. 18, 2010 5:24 pm
The plasma pulpit relays, as ever a constant newsfeed; football, in all its meat and bones, statistics, player transfer and the minutiae of the simple, oh so simple game. Analysis to the nth degree, barely articulate talking heads, reanimated lifemasks intoning utter turgid drivel about 11 men kicking a sphere of inflated leather against another 11 men, sponsored by life-sucking alcohol...  Read More
Feb. 18, 2010 1:56 am
Apocalypse by gradation, Colours fading to monochrome, Canine eyes fixed to a bleak horizon, Waiting. Analgesics for the difficult days, This is not The Golden Age of Merrie England. The Hobbesian lines stand; Back to nasty, brutish and short, alas, the cheap life. Wetherspooning the drinking pound, Beer and processed, reformed, fodder, Bread and circuses de jour, Atomised futures ahead. It's...  Read More
Feb. 18, 2010 1:36 am
Brinsley O'Donovan perched on a high stool at The Castle on Portobello Road, morphine flattening out residual agony, halos of sickly neon assaulting milky lenses, sweat beads minute on a putty-white brow. Hypoglycaemic? No, the 2nd cider was weaving ethanoic magic, just enough to be analgesic, not enough to completely throw the insulin 'script off balance. Poly chemical juggling. Sulphate Lainey...  Read More
Feb. 17, 2010 7:42 pm
The concourse is empty and it's almost time to give in; Long nights of toil and 5AM weeps sodium into my eyes, I see a face at the Central Hotel exit, Familiar, a doppelganger self, An aspic-preserved youth, The mirage departs as the 1st train hits platform 14, I place my form into the fluorescence of the SPT capsule, And breathe out tendrils of winter breath. Absent of people, A ghost shift of...  Read More
Feb. 17, 2010 6:28 pm
The human shell; fragile, consciousness the hard wiring. The elements that remain of the paleolithic; The community, the women of wisdom, all gone, A future seeded on male money dreams And the commerce of war and division. A quick recollection of a summer, Alone on a Mallorcan beach, Eyes clocking the post-Franco pride, The casual violence of bored Guardia Civil, Dreaming of fascist spoils, As...  Read More
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