Jamiemccarthytv

Tag: brainwashing

  • The Physics of the Line

    What makes a good leader?

    Haha

    The Physics of the Line

    he must be a man who has

    tasted the barrel of the gun

    and found the metal

    cold and honest.

    he must have burned down

    his own house,

    sat in the ashes,

    drinking cheap scotch from a

    cracked mug,

    and decided to build it back

    without a single nail of

    pity.

    he must be dangerous.

    a violent thing

    wearing a quiet suit.

    a wolf who learned

    a knife and fork

    so the children don’t notice

    the teeth.

    he takes the screaming chaos

    of the universe,

    runs it through his ribs,

    and hands it back as

    calm instructions.

    he is the wall in the wind.

    the father who stays awake

    so the family can dream

    of meadows.

    we write books about him.

    we carve his face

    into mountains.

    we argue over

    vision,

    grit,

    the holy mechanics

    of command.

    burn the books.

    sand the statues down

    to dust.

    spit on the philosophy

    until only pavement

    is left.

    the answer is not in the man.

    it is in the space

    behind him.

    you ask what makes a

    good leader?

    turn around.

    if there is no one there,

    you are just a man

    taking a walk.

    if there is a line of

    warm bodies

    mistaking your shadow

    for a map,

    following your heels

    into the fire—

    congratulations.

    you are a leader.

    the rest is just

    marketing.

  • 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.

  • Same Damn Bus

    I sat in the back of the bus

    because that’s where the broken kids sat.

    Not the cool ones—

    the twitchers, the burnouts,

    the ones who already knew by third grade

    this world was a bad fucking joke.

    Left side, right side?

    Jesus.

    That was for the believers.

    The ones still dumb enough to think

    which seat you chose

    meant a damn thing when the brakes were cut.

    Now we’re adults—

    barely—

    dressed up in grown-up costumes

    shouting bumper-sticker manifestos

    with all the conviction of a child

    reading a cereal box.

    You think your side matters?

    You’re still on the bus.

    Still headed straight for the edge.

    It’s just that now—

    you paid for the ride

    with your spine.

    I saw a sign the other day:

    Gays for Gaza.

    And I thought—

    Holy shit,

    we’ve lost the script.

    In Gaza they’d hang you by your ankles

    and call it justice.

    But sure, wave the flag.

    March in circles.

    It’s not about truth—

    it’s about being seen.

    I feel like I’ve been dropped into a Kafka play

    rewritten by TikTok influencers

    with terrible ring lights—

    everyone stuck in a loop,

    lip-syncing their own execution.

    That’s what they want, isn’t it?

    To be seen.

    Heard.

    Felt.

    Fucked.

    Validated by anyone, anything—

    even if it means

    joining a parade

    led by ghosts.

    They want to belong

    so bad

    they’ll build homes in their own execution chambers

    and call it progress.

    Left side, right side—

    there’s no steering wheel.

    The driver’s a ghost.

    The road’s on fire.

    And the rest of us?

    We’re just passengers

    pretending our seat matters

    while the bus barrels toward the abyss.

    And when the smoke clears—

    if it ever does—

    they’ll find bones in rows

    like teeth in a grin,

    still arguing

    over who had the better view

    as the whole goddamn thing

    went down.