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. 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
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