Identity Verified Thinker in Arts / Literature / Contemporary
Sean Urquhart
Sean Urquhart
A versatile writer, who has covered everything from whisky copy to poetry and critical review.


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Jul. 11, 2009 8:40 am
I hate silence in these empty days, I play solo pontoon, I slug poison; just to stay awake. I prophesy disaster; for a laugh, for sport, Fun and frolics in the interminable.... Boring long, hot summer. This is the worst, This is the worst. Glasgow Burroughs into my gut: Acid flashes of future memories; Non-fates/ Non-gods/negative angels, Ionised sexual failures; At least I'm good at blackjack...  Read More
Jul. 11, 2009 4:31 am
Friday. 11PM. Trog Central. Litter. Discarded white corpuscles. Evil intent in discombobulated drunken orbs. Eyes black with sex n' vile thoughts. Falklands and Gulf vets skulking in bare bars. Stench of whisky sweat and horrible testosterone. Barely legal girls tapping lights and being refused service in boring, loud brain-bashing drinkers. I surf the tarmac, sober, fag like a divining rod...  Read More
Jul. 6, 2009 8:21 am
"There it was. A Black Monolith. A cypher. Sphinx with no discernable secret. Not to be trust. Laura was management was a crock. I'd give up now, before I too was supposedly spent; not that I believed I would ever be. Been close; but no..." Jerry Dickson and brother Jim were wrapping up business. Cheque books put away. Bankruptcy avoided. The extant madness of the bogus id-dustry of...  Read More
Jul. 6, 2009 3:09 am
This was the time. He was exhaling only. I heard the rattle and then the subtle warmth pass into my enlived arms. He had died. I held him, kissed him and hugged my mother. I headed for the hospice toilet and blinded myself with cleansing tears. I gazed at my new face. Harder, funnier, more twinkly. His face for a moment. Just a brief glimpse of his dissipated energy. And he was gone, never to...  Read More
Jul. 6, 2009 3:08 am
The free-flowing nature of the music took them to the plane they required to be on. Categories flew out into the aether of notes, chords, progressions, riffs and downright accidents of muscle memory. A trio of chaotic geezers. The studio heat in the soundproof conservatory structure was that of a Finnish sauna. Livo, bassman, lashed sweat and cracked appropriate funnies. Mick B on everything...  Read More
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