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. 5, 2010 8:07 pm
I switched off when he started talking about drill bits, Pallet racking, measurements, Gyproc, ie work. Then it moved to stats as the football tugged at the eyes, Plasma screens dominated the small lounge, Portals to the unreality of sport; Lager commercials with a leather ball, Sponsors with no regard for anything bar naked profit. The Sun and the The Star lay between us, As he editorialised on...  Read More
Apr. 5, 2010 12:34 am
The olfactory miasma that is the cloud of hops and chemicals over Tennent Caledonian brewery brings a tinge of regret as you exit Glasgow Green and jog up the Saltmarket. Some early morning town foxes are scavenging, eyeing you with indifference as you turn onto Argyle Street and quickly past Cash Converters; the quick turnaround pawn shop of the soul. You imagine Christmas presents being hawked...  Read More
Apr. 4, 2010 9:38 pm
How to fill empty hours, hours where I could be elsewhere; Getting the inspiration knocked out of me by some supervisor, In the serried ranks of the call centres, Or on building sites, Where my input is expected to rise unrealistically with the job spec. I can't do it anymore; Pretend that I can be like everyone else, Pretend that there is anything approaching normal. Reality seems overrated....  Read More
Apr. 3, 2010 12:22 am
From rags to rags, to almost complete indifference, It's a familiar tale. Dwarfed by modern citadels to commerce and art; Aesthetics through Saatchi lenses. Coaxed by some few friends to continue, That is all that stokes the fires, The anger, the essence of the words; Some would say sigils of intent, The poetry of the hermitic, The forgotten, Those driven insane by the diseased present tense, The...  Read More
Apr. 3, 2010 12:21 am
Churches with firmly locked doors; No sanctuary to be had there, Just the Sunday club of the self-righteous, Purloining notional fire insurance, In case of a non-notional hellish inferno. Nothing new there, I find succour in wastelands, Empty, rotting buildings, Overgrown forgotten, neglected parkland, Boundary boozers with shiftless drinkers indoors, Tipping down pints and halfs, As the light...  Read More
Apr. 3, 2010 12:15 am
Another dawn sheds more light on the battle scars; The daily battle with the self, The need to go on in spite of one's own failure, The desperation of in and outtakes of shallow breaths, Fearful moments, Bad ideation, Moving to an endgame with the self, Or what is left after another day. And yet the crushing hope visits itself, Gives the scribe the illusion, The light at the end of the tunnel,...  Read More
Apr. 2, 2010 11:06 pm
It was manifest in the dark hazel irises and slightly hooded eyes; melancholy, deep and kept in check with self medication through the lager fonts at The Belle on Great Western Road and other hostelries throughout the city. The sober suit and gentlemanly bearing was a stand out among the jeans-by-the-balls and boxers-on-display men in here. The barstool perching is sometimes a tell, a small...  Read More
Apr. 2, 2010 4:00 pm
"Distractions. Necessary items and enthusiasms to take one's mind off the festering mass of humanity beyond one's own boundaries. The Net. The TV set. The radio. Cinema. Bars. Clubs. Car fetishism. BDSM. Stamp collecting. Stock portfolio. Fishing. The omnipresent mobile phone. Train/'plane/Eddie Stobart lorry-spotting. Just a cross-section of what's on offer. I see the pubesecent teens throat...  Read More
Apr. 1, 2010 8:05 pm
The Croft Bar unfurls out-of-place Red Hands of Ulster, After all this is Paisley the place, Not the person.  Read More
Apr. 1, 2010 8:00 pm
The Angel offers mute, unmoving possible blessings, On the way past The Grand Old Opry; That time and space-shifted relic of The Old West. Union Flags aggressively conjure a dying loyalism best left dead The Angel Bar; no benediction here, just BNP meetings, And atavistic time-travellers from the imagined 18th century, The shamanic trance of the self-loathing, Affixed to a defunct dead Empire...  Read More
Apr. 1, 2010 7:48 pm
What really is there to do here? Get pissed among the Megalithic Callanish Stones, Walk over rain-lashed wastelands, Imagine that magic works? The harbour reveals little; Clachan Bar provides a pitstop, A small snapshot of secularism, In the bible Free Church greyness. The weekend sees the under 30s gather; The almost occult concrete pyramid, A totem of sybaritic future rites, Physical and...  Read More
Apr. 1, 2010 7:31 pm
Every building relates multiple stories, even the ones that die with the rubble. Pollokshaws Road. Ordinance Survey and Social Security Office put to rest and the site recast as aspirational, already rotting, flats. The litter and detritus on the street may have been supplanted with the recycling emptiness of the fragile now. Doubtless all will terminate in some unmarked landfill. Maxwell's is...  Read More
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