Jamiemccarthytv

Tag: absurdity

  • MANUAL FOR SPOTTING A KNIFE

    By Jamie, not Cormac, McCarthy

    Manual for Spotting the Knife

    There’s enough rot in a regular person
    to fuel a thousand comment sections
    and still have leftovers for Sunday.

    You don’t need monsters.
    You just need people
    with slogans
    and something to protect.

    The loudest about mercy
    keep their hands clean
    by pointing.

    The loudest about love
    need an audience
    or it spoils.

    The loudest about peace
    sleep with one eye open
    and a thumb on the trigger
    they swear they don’t own.

    God-talkers rent God.
    They don’t live with Him.
    Peace-talkers rehearse it
    like a line they keep forgetting.
    Love-talkers mean approval
    and charge interest.

    Watch the ones with microphones.
    Watch the ones with certainty.
    Watch the ones who underline books
    but never bleed on the page.

    Watch the ones who romanticize hunger
    or mock it—
    both are tourists.

    Watch the fast clappers.
    They clap to hear themselves.

    Watch the ones who police language—
    they’re terrified
    something feral might get loose
    and name them.

    Watch the ones who need crowds.
    Alone, they evaporate.

    The average man isn’t harmless.
    The average woman isn’t gentle.
    Their love wants a receipt.
    Their love wants witnesses.
    Their love wants to be normal
    so it doesn’t have to be brave.

    And here’s the part nobody says out loud:

    There’s brilliance in their resentment.
    A precision.
    A teamwork.
    A choreography.

    They can’t stand silence
    because silence asks questions.
    They can’t stand solitude
    because it doesn’t applaud.

    They can’t make anything
    that didn’t already exist,
    so when they fail
    they blame the room,
    the time,
    the culture,
    the weather,
    you.

    They don’t understand art
    because art doesn’t ask permission.
    They don’t understand love
    because love doesn’t negotiate.

    So they’ll tell you
    you’re doing it wrong.
    That your grief is excessive.
    That your joy is suspicious.
    That your freedom is offensive.

    Then they’ll come for you
    not messy,
    not emotional—
    but clean.

    Their hatred is efficient.
    It shines.
    It passes inspections.
    It wears credentials.

    It doesn’t rage.zwzwq
    It executes.

    And that—
    that is the only masterpiece
    most of them will ever finish.

  • Dr. Falls Freud

    “Doctor, we need more pills for our patience

    so we can get more patients.”

    Get me an Rx, stat—

    hit the deep web,

    or whatever corner the interns score their morals from.

    And bring me a nurse we can bang over—

    well-versed, sober,

    but tell her to hold her applause

    because if this hangover wins,

    I’m clocking out in a hearse.

    And while we’re at it,

    the whole world needs a makeover.

    Fraud in plain sight,

    unconscious piss on the fallen—

    what a trip.

    That’s not a Freudian slip,

    that’s Freud falling down the stairs

    and blaming your mother for it.

    It all goes back to Uncle Trouble’s past.

    Self-made man.

    Self-made until he dropped the big E,

    now he’s just self-mad.

    So let me pause before this final sentence—

    use common sense,

    add an extra comma before but, and, or,

    to add drama or suspense.

    And that comma?

    Instant karma—

    you’ll get what you got coming

    and going.

    Everybody wants their shot,

    but the dharma bums don’t talk about guns;

    they just swing for the fences—

    ostensibly offensive to some,

    but you can’t fix what sticks in your head and makes you want to fight.

    And that being said, here’s my plight:

    the insanity sits in my vanity.

    Maybe I should find God.

    “Doctor, I think you’re losing your patience.”

    What do you mean?

    Love is patient, love is kind—

    they said if I loved myself too much

    I’d go blind.

    Bullshit.

    I can see for miles.

    Maybe I’ll fight the resistance,

    write their riddance,

    rewrite their wrongful existence.

    Be the pause

    before my final sentence.

    And get that nurse an ashtray.

    The patient spent his life working,

    now his heart is hardly working—

    he’ll be living in an urn.

    Too soon?

    Alright, call it.

    Time of death:

    whenever the last punchline landed.

    Cause of death?

    Freud slipped again.

    I’m losing my patience.

    There’s no cadence to this curse.

    I want to go back in time—

    you know, when men were men.

    And goddammit—

    where’s my nurse?

    FATHER SICARIO