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. 31, 2010 8:46 pm
The web-located video from 2000 is duly watched; a semi-coherent, semi-sober super-string of information delivered in the overladen, stuck-in-the-continual-present manner of the schizophrenic. Disinformation? It was difficult to sift out the real from the bizarre and downright comically implausible. The shining meniscus, dressed in designer Stasi fig uttering an entire philosophy through a vodka...  Read More
Mar. 30, 2010 9:41 pm
The high-frequency twitch of a post-palsy, one group of eye muscles working independently of the other's; an asymmetrical off-put to the day's conversation. The concrete of the pavement has taken on a porridge-like consistency and you're struggling to keep balance as your post-prandial slight bloating puts your legs at a disadvantage. You're trying to hold onto the essence of The White Mage's...  Read More
Mar. 26, 2010 1:36 pm
Hermit's gamble: a night away from the spells cast; Screens filled with dubious memories, Future regret, aimless pleasures, Skies filled with rain and iron clad possibilities. Extrovert's gamble: closed mouth, watch what you say, Ears pick up gossip radar nonsense and repeat, Best to disseminate crap, Throw the sheep off the scent, Drinkers gamble: take a night off, Enjoy the full awareness of...  Read More
Mar. 26, 2010 1:30 pm
Patrick the Tip sees me on Portobello, hails me, Shines penny-bright eyes from under his shades; Beckett with a Racing Post and Catholic irrationale. The Castle provides temporary shelter as we go through The runners and riders at various tracks; Thirsk to Chepstow, North Yorkshire conservatism versus The Welsh hinterland. 3 horses reap us a full day and night on the tiles, As well as my hotel...  Read More
Mar. 26, 2010 1:25 pm
I can see from the records that litter the floor, That you once had that lunatic glint, That visionary zeal. I can see from the murk that this street, Was once grand, Empire-builders, Tsarists on the run, Dukes in nobel poverty, Alongside the bombmakers of Bayswater. A single magpie heralds defeat, Superstition overwhelms for a brief second, And you barely see, though laugh at my stupidity;...  Read More
Mar. 26, 2010 1:20 pm
I knew him when I haunted the city streets by febrile night, Days spent with the blinds drawn or out on the verandah, Young pretender, ageing, mellowing as the Summer faded. He was the counterpoint, further along the spectrum, Older, wiser, kinder as I railed against whatever was in my path; The impotent city rage of the truly powerless. Then I could see that power was illusion and vanity, The...  Read More
Mar. 25, 2010 10:05 pm
The chair was thick with the dust and neglect of aeons. The figure hugging the twin skulls on separate arms was unmoving, eyes focused on the next, unwritten, unknowable chapter. The Biscuit Boy was back in native territory; the largest smalltown in Scotland, with all the attendant hassles that would entail. The last ally of The White Mage. Patrick the Tip always kept the respectful distance of a...  Read More
Mar. 24, 2010 9:53 pm
The panic. The rising blood pressure, almost expanding arteries and ventricles, the pins and needles and silver spots before the eyes. Everyday anxiety. The bus queue. Mobile 'phone dependency as commuters desperately avoid any kind of contact. Blocked ears with iPod leaking a layer of audio concrete. Blocked neural capacity with a mixture of chemical calmers, placebo trickster sugar pills and...  Read More
Mar. 23, 2010 11:23 am
Revisionist architects overseeing 2-D images which will forever trap human ants in their concrete lattices and flawed schemes of humanity organisation. Entire community histories traduced by Olympic Development Agency short-termism and Commonwealth Games shiny distraction. Boundaries redrawn to Israeli "peace" wall proportions, cutting through fecund Hackney allotments and demolishing Parkhead...  Read More
Mar. 22, 2010 1:24 pm
We were officially off the page, outwith the text, surrendering to whatever was thrown at us, allowing the drift to take us there, not knocking back any opportunity. After the heady and heavy medicine of Sinclair, Pickard and Moore, not to mention Susan Stenger, Stephen O'Malley and FM Enheit, with the Northumbrian overt tones of Andy May's pipes, Brother Cocamba and I were fried, refried and...  Read More
Mar. 17, 2010 6:54 pm
And so on The Sage's ultra-modern viewing deck, the bridges of The Tyne and the very sweep of the city beyond fills the eyes. Brother Cocamba feels a tad uneasy and so do I at the sheer size of the space, dwarfed by the architecture, feeling the opposite of claustrophobic and in need of some more stouts we descend to the lower of the older Tyne bridges. Skirting the quayside, eventually drifting...  Read More
Mar. 16, 2010 5:02 pm
As the bus driver in lipid-larynxed tones uttered the usual overly draconian disclaimers and micro rules for his domain, Brother Cocamba and I sweated out a few human toxins and truncated histories, personal and future-focused as we boarded the National Express capsule to Newcastle. The concrete flyovers and Neo-Manhattan of the shopping empire architects of Glasgow gave way to the sprawl of...  Read More
Mar. 13, 2010 6:39 pm
It was all self-revering editorials and opinions formed in some focus groups that had finished you with newspapers. That, and the monomaniacal megalomaniacs behind the most popular examples. The slow drift away from information disseminated purely to profit and all the poisonous alcohol that flowed through you, dully oiling the wheels of elective dementia. Another weekend dead. The secular public...  Read More
Mar. 4, 2010 6:39 pm
"I can hear strings being scraped and eager voices lilting as I pass the slightly listing, subsiding entrance to The Paisley Abbey. Mozart's Requiem. I steady my pace and feel the increments of sad keening enter my audio canals and register with my dulled, Wintry thought processes. The oldest recorded music was found beneath my boots, slate scratched, minimal notes, a few seconds of Cluniac...  Read More
Mar. 4, 2010 11:35 am
3 Dimensions retreating through an amphetamine lens, Insubstantial form dissolves, Prefigures death, Ceases to be you. The Griffin left behind, The coast beckons, Obscurity wanted, Obscurity gained, The anonymous elect. Delivered in a capsule, black; Seagulls darting in and out of shot, Filmed sequences, Flirting with unrealities, Family seaside holidays of yore, And imminent beach boarding house...  Read More
Mar. 4, 2010 11:01 am
As the communication ebbs and flows in textual speech bubbles, BB finds himself seeking out a pair of dull orbs at the footrail of Portobello Star's bar. Laptop snapped shut he approaches the non-regular with the grace of a midfield general. The orbs refuse to blink as BB places his shiny perma-alert face inches from the straggler. The bright greens meet as conversation is barked "New face?" BB's...  Read More
Mar. 4, 2010 9:56 am
The sweat shops of Tottenham are all-too visible, looking up at the unruly tangle of industrial sewing units and obscured faces, sinking a pint in The Cape of Good Hope. Sighing as the long Summer day bleaches the crisp bags in the clogged gutters, it's a wonderful life you mouth to yourself. More humour of the dark variety. You come back to see family and escape one reality, taking all the...  Read More
Mar. 3, 2010 12:22 pm
1659. You have a flicker of thought about Cromwell as you stare at your hands. Staring for longer than five minutes brings about a state of mind akin to schizophrenia, or so you read. 1704. A quick glance at the failing light and you hear the radiators rattle, bringing you back into the womb of your main living area. Behind glass, hermetically sealed, sterile. You absent-mindedly touch your...  Read More
Mar. 3, 2010 11:58 am
The Cart river's chocolaty surface was still, mill-pond still. An old supermarket trolley was half-submerged as a swan made its sole progress over the calm surface. Further upriver near the falls, the Hamills as they were known locally, an early morning hobby angler affixed bait and waited for first light. The Anchor Mill stood solemnly, decades of trade rendered as executive housing and New...  Read More
Mar. 2, 2010 12:45 pm
In fond remembrance; tracer bullets and mortar shells, Long nights under siege to a known enemy, As speaking in tongues of black bag ops, Becomes a common language. Illusions of democracy, In fond remembrance; empty graves lining up for missing remains, My human husk props up an emptying head at the bar, The White Mage offers some wordless crooning, Incantations of regret, For the wars he never...  Read More
Mar. 2, 2010 12:12 pm
New rituals at closing time. A half inch of beer left for the old voices alive in the stale air; the methane of punters and the small decay of a day spent dodging creditors in the city and door-stepping court-appointed tally men in your own midden. The sweat of survival. The last round of the night sees Patrick the Tip returning from The Heath, sun-visor recasting him as Samuel Beckett on a beach...  Read More
Mar. 2, 2010 10:30 am
The azure skies were bland, a boring riposte to the vicissitudes of Winter. Punters had already shed the layers in lunatic optimism, exposure to any temperature higher than zero C a reason for a pre-Beltane celebration of Spring. Royal Oak Tube. 7AM and your head is awake with possibilities, all of them leading to dead ends and alternatives selves in Templar graves, Romney Marshes and Bayswater...  Read More
Mar. 2, 2010 5:01 am
Nothing will make you gentle; Illness has taken you beyond the childhood boundaries. You flatten out as self-medication wears off, And the fruits of your labours lies beneath your eyes. Dead Thursday/Good Friday? It will be a quick trip home, Over the liminal into the unreal, unravelling. One more for the scrapbook, One more for the team.  Read More
Mar. 2, 2010 2:49 am
Radio 4 bled RP tones into the room. The Poet's Pub; a journey through English poetry and prose through the medium of the secular temple of the boozer. Entering the world of poets long gone from the landscape, a lot on the Celtic fringe, which went uncommented. Still the Empire hangover, the reluctance to admit the Scots, Irish and Welsh into the hallowed pantheon of English Literature. Patrick...  Read More
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