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Sean Urquhart
Sean Urquhart
An ailing, pathetic scribe who sees no point in punting himself like a Portobello whore. Read my blog amd weep for me, pals. An utter failure,
 

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Posted in Arts / Literature / Contemporary

Ecstasy and longing in New York (Part Three)

Feb. 23, 2009 11:26 pm
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Corrosive cynicism circled my tight skull, as I tried to retain a vestige of decency, not easy when you're drinking your way around an unfamiliar hyper-real zip, zip, zip dreamscape of a city. The rush of the hyper-kinetic citizen, moving in this authoritarian theme park, to the tune of the cash-till ding and the slavery and madness of the working life of this Disneyland-esque misadventure ride, all makes for a sore nut and and aching feet. I was still in Glasgow, mentally, as I treading wearily and warily through these unknown grids of numbers. Books of revelation. Unfolding daily apocalypse and still my luggage was drifting somewhere between Philly and here. The onrush of a jet-lagged insomniacal body leap contorted my features as I caught a macabre vision of myself in Times Square Virgin Megastore window; sunken eyes, pale dial with funeral pallor chic. A wreck. Clothes hanging on a suspiciously thin body, a rackle of bones and a head full of worry. I was running, running on the spot. Rushing to a standstill. Corsica. Majorca. Manchester.London. Philly. NYC. Running away from the self...The siren call of the boozer was irresistable and my loins tingled with all the possibilities in a city reknown for its fleshpots. A tingle of running-on-empty-ecstasy ran through my corpus as I tumbled into the Alehouse on Times Square, bumping into my Canterbury cousin Paul, who almost blanked me, not expecting to see me next to him in NYC "You following me?" Was all he could muster, words falling out of an astonished voice "Pint?" Was my only response as we loped to the bar, arms wrapped nervously round Pauls scrawny shoulders in a prophylactic armouring gesture.

 
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