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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Apr. 30, 2009 3:29 am
Ivan McGhee was in agony. His guts had swollen to epically monstrous proportions. It was Porton Down, again. More experiments at Prof. MacLeod's behest. Stomach parasites/bad LSD, chased with poisoned water...God! Ivan buckled as he and Alastair B made for the ferry. I was good to out in the real air for a change. 2012. What a year! Now it was payback time and with MacLeod out of the way, sprayed...  Read More
Apr. 29, 2009 3:00 am
Ivan McGhee was off on one...loping down Sauchiehall Street, one arm telegraphing Townshend-like intent, the other floating towards an unsure apogee. He was blazing drunk. It had been quite a day...Brinsley O'Donovan had been found in Glasgow: Alive! Brinsley O'Donovan stood shadowed by McGhee's twirling overcoat, as Ivan added a note of caution to events as they stood "ALIVE, ALIVE,...  Read More
Apr. 22, 2009 8:15 pm
A mind to kill the moment. A word, a raised voice, eyebrow, an expansive hand gesture and I'm finished with the thoughts of revenge of any sort or even bothered with the swampy territory I'd have to traverse to carry out the job. I'm done with hate, insincere love, fashion statement-philosophy and crappy suits looking down their coked bugles at me and mine. I pocketed the pistol Frankie had given...  Read More
Apr. 22, 2009 3:51 pm
It was happening again. Owen Francis Molloy of the Parish of Culdaff was expounding on past lives, lives already lived and the all-too distant futures which we were tumbling into, headlong, willingly. Teenage selves materialised into view as we got further from the real. Who needs it? Reality was what you willed it to be, always had been that way. Automatic writing sputtered from my pen; time for...  Read More
Apr. 22, 2009 4:29 am
Psychonauts on the loose in the exposed city of glass palace, smoke, mirrors and bottles of who-the-fuck-are-lookin'-at gut-rot ersatz communion vino. The taxi snaking its way across the serpentine Clyde and Admiral Cooper skippering the ship of foolish notions to his pad in Bellahouston. Casino had been packed with desperate blackjack idiots loosing wallet moths as I compose myself as the black...  Read More
Apr. 21, 2009 10:49 pm
Yoker: card lying on new concrete, overlaying old concrete, overlaying the earth I'll end up in myself. Jimmy Ballard had just died and me and Joe and especially Gareth were gutted by his passing. Same cancer as my old man's. He's gone too. I bend to pick up a face-down single playing card. 3 of Spades reveals itself. We 3 getting it in Spades. No bad thing. Spades; a good suit. Well fitting....  Read More
Apr. 20, 2009 5:19 am
It's time to turn the wine to water and back to wine again. In a sense we're all alchemists of one sort of another. The new triumverate. The Professor in his Helsinki lab; The Rev in his urban jungle making sense of the extant madness. Me in the leafy suburbs scribing away and hoping for the best. And the doyenne, Jimmy Ballard. RIP. You shall be missed. By us all and many more. But especially to...  Read More
Apr. 18, 2009 5:52 am
Gordo and O'Toole were deep in confabulation when I entered the boozer. O'Toole had his eye on some Lebanese woman who had a dangerously attractive cast to her, Gordo was beavering away at some notes and keeping the action flowing, I was heading for hangover hell part two: The heady sequel with Mickey Rourke chain smoking fags and pouring whisky down my neck, and me unable to refuse on account of...  Read More
Apr. 17, 2009 4:00 am
O'Toole's furiously rising from his chair and I'm putting the squeeze on his taut shoulders. Gordo is telegraphing concern and Kendal's menfolk are doing fuck all. A woman is on the deck, took a sucker punch from her partner in grime as their little kids look on. Saturday. July weather. 530 PM racing results are called in this boorish drinking school and we have to exit. We're fucked in this...  Read More
Apr. 17, 2009 1:32 am
An afternoon with Jimmy. Pints chased with rums and pep. Answers sought in his unblinking stare of intense sorrow and good humoured anti-English rants. We put each other at ease as my documentary is stalled by late night intransigent cameramen, I'm footloose in the town, easily swayed by an offer of a Guinness. Jimmy orders with decent manners and is castigated by the silent hard stare of the...  Read More
Apr. 17, 2009 1:16 am
Margate. "Mr Winkle needs to tinkle" Mr O'Toole proffers a neat request among the July holiday throng as Gordo and I try to hold in the incredulity. 33 degrees or thereabouts and still clad in winter wear leather suit jacket and plaid shirt. Aviator shades at a jaunty angle. Doc Martens with a high shine. We depart Margate, 3 or 4 hours here was enough. It's like Ayr without the couthy humour or...  Read More
Apr. 15, 2009 11:55 pm
Canterbury: home of the scene and the stuff of my daymares. Some block had nearly stabbed me there in 1987 and I'd never forgotten that, despite the wonderment-inducing music that flowed like mercury from there throughout the 60s and 70s and beyond. Anyway, here I was tipping back the black stuff in The 3 Tuns and looking for a fight. No...I got some Jock pumping my mitt and rabbitting about...  Read More
Apr. 15, 2009 4:10 am
He was at it again. Pub after pub traversed chasing women in optics, bottles, cans and draught as the man says. I stared at his Old Testament mugshot profile and had a quiet smile to myself. We had done 20 pubs in an hour and my speed was wearing off. I trained it home to Bayswater, stopping off at Jodie ODs for a late night ramble about contemporary Irish golfers and Winston Churchill's...  Read More
Apr. 15, 2009 3:32 am
Company. Sometimes the only factor between you and the hereafter. Even when you're dead inside, as I was when I took the film that sealed the fate of a certain politician, it was company that swooped in on wings of intervention and prevented the certain demise of a certain Ivan Anthony McGhee. MI5 spooks may come and go, but the caberet of friendships goes on forever. Moorcock had been impressed...  Read More
Apr. 14, 2009 8:46 pm
The drones. Always hammering away at the backbrain. Primal fear drummed into my wiped mental slate. Patinas of shifting realities competing for attention. The drones. It was coming: the end point, in a heavily quilted sense. I was being suffocated in white noise and cotton wool-mouthed I raised my eyes to the strip lighting as the DMT took effect. I was acceding to the madness. Capitulating to...  Read More
Apr. 12, 2009 3:05 pm
I am crazy. Good family. Oxford main chance. But no, shoot yersel' in the fit, wee man!. What shite! I was a 22 year old dude in an unusual academic setting. I mean, these dudes thought Gerry Rafferty was fucking American! Jesus! What rot...all the time thinking of poor Sean Sheridan; dead at 36, my uncle's best mate and a good mentor o' mine... Then Floyd kicks in with its bad-time blues...  Read More
Apr. 12, 2009 6:44 am
Fountain of Salamacis creeps out of massive speakers as Vol. Con and I down pints and wrestle with the existential horror of essay deadlines whilst keeping a weather eye on the ladies. Dipso-wide bhoys floating on a sea of prog and Guinnesses. Vol. Con makes a quip about my straggly barnet, saying I was becoming a white Rasta, and why didn't I go the whole hog and get some dreads? I choked on the...  Read More
Apr. 11, 2009 6:02 am
Free aether. Solar energy assails my pellucid Gaelic skin as me and The Rev traverse more of the forgotten and erased, trying to compose a homage that neither stoops to conquer nor soft soaps; a difficult doxology. Old Lady Time is never kind to the navel gazers. Quickly we rush through over an hour of footage and I tootle off for an early bath. I'd prefigured Ayrshire so wrong: my childhood...  Read More
Apr. 11, 2009 4:32 am
Through the verdant fields, Thoughts of you spin in the light, Not too much hurry; In the good thoughts of an April daze. Painting the landscape, Through the camera lens, Soliloquies uttered, Love on the air. Frequencies tweaked, Ayr floats by, Fresh ozone breathed, And more stirring of good old ghosts. Time for another small beer, And off for the dreamless sleep...  Read More
Apr. 11, 2009 2:53 am
Paisley to Kilwinning: I feel my guts roll slightly, is it the HP parasite or something more sinister? The travelogue/documentary/psychogeographical jaunt that The Rev has proposed, I leapt on, early filming 3 days previously a blur of improvised jazzy prog ramblings and infected with the Guinness enthusiasm that I'd poured into the mix on the last trip to Auld Ayrshire. This was different, a...  Read More
Apr. 9, 2009 5:55 pm
I never expected it: I should have taken more care, I trampled my feelings and hers, In a stew of hallucinated, over-medicated fury. And now I feel as bereft as can be: Losses that I find; a heavier Atlas-burden, A Sisyphean task. Love waits in the wings, I still care.  Read More
Apr. 8, 2009 5:08 am
Broughty Ferry was a starting point: a liminal place, where I stepped over the edge and found that the terrain was as rocky as ever. As for Greater Dundee, I'm glad it's becoming a distant memory, a tracery on my mental tapestry. The experience is one I don't want to repeat. It was self-atavism. It was recapitulating to an old self: the self of the Id, the blind and lusty lovers believing...  Read More
Apr. 8, 2009 4:19 am
I've had enough of chasing the ace: The incarnate boozer in me retches. I've been to the fringes of it all, And it's never pleasant, The Who vs The Beatles: The terrible analogy that hits the spot, And pisses the company off. I'm in tune, right in tune, And I'm off the scale, Again; feebly warding off The Reaper  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:46 am
Pastimes rattle in my open mind; Summoning new questions, Providing antagonism for only me: Solitary mind games...  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:44 am
Why: that's the bugbear, Try as I may, It is never enough, So I recede, Watching you pulled under by the alcohol undertow, No ship to shore, my friend, No anchor to hold you fast.  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:42 am
Too much is not enough: Too little is the stuff of nightmare, I pick at the scab, And reveal the canker below.  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:41 am
Nuclear attack conversation: An end in itself. Unfortunate, but hating me will ease conscience, It really will, I planned it that way  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:39 am
Price of torment? Agony in optic, On draught, In can, Bottle, Safely delivered to your liver: Killing yourself by painful inchworm, Down the line, you won't thank me, My misplaced faith will bite you, More than it will bark at me. Shaving mirror optimism is no good...  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:36 am
The cheque's in the post, old friend; Misery is on its way, By increment; Every misdeed multiplied by ten, The danger of misguided amateur voodoo.  Read More
Apr. 7, 2009 5:33 am
It's a subtle violence: Words wasted on the unwitting. Runes cast by occult youth day night trippers, Easily cut human meat is left raw, Another innocent suffers, Another arsehole copper incriminates, Another wasted sunset, Another miscreant escapes, For a time...  Read More
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