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Sean Urquhart
Sean Urquhart
A versatile writer, who has covered everything from whisky copy to poetry and critical review.


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Posted in Arts / Literature / Contemporary

The Father

Feb. 18, 2012 9:47 pm
Categories: None

That almost digital hush, as the night traffic cedes to taxi-ing3am post pub livestock back to their pits. That weeding out of useless ambition, self pity and dread. A numbness descends. Muscle spasms give warning of some sort of shelf life decay. A fear of alcohol sinks in as one eyes the heaving drinks cabinet. Bird in the gilded cage cliche of cliches. The punishment of relative luxury. Mind you, there's nowhere to go as the morning waxes in nano increments and the fish tank issues a steady flow of life affirming water from the electric pump. An ocean in miniature as one day drifts seamlessly into the next. The palpable lack of medical progress could leave one on an impotent island of self doubt, despair and Caledonian miserablism. A fine romance?

The afternoon was steady enough. Pain measured in intervals of 15 mins. Dizziness. Numbness. A groin fit for naught as the old needs are met by resting. Gone the priapic adventures of not 6 months ago. The countenance clocked in the warping sitting room mirror looks grimly humourous. A cut price King John in dressing gown and outsized dreaming peepers. Google inquiry arrives at myriad diagnoses signaling the failure of the NHS to keep within Cameron's Reich approach. Osborne the clown prince chancellor. Politics as cabaret.

Evening was stolid.

Night descended.

Defeat was everywhere.

Inside was the haven, only for today. Tomorrow will bring, if anything more questing and navel gazing. Pathetic. Shadow existence. Recluse the goal. Why not? The pals offer mute nods and Pavlovian sympathy. The exile continue. Why not? There is nowhere else to go. Shadow of the self. Shadow self laughs at the body on the sofa. Mother prays at a remove for the arrival of success in small small measure. Suffer the children. Exeunt as Jimmie suggested not a decade ago. Get out afore the prostate, joints and bladder give interminable grief allied to dead mates in obit scanning Sundays. Get out son. Too late, Jimmie. Too late.

Slogans and crap art scream from across the water.

One day will see me off.

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