Jamiemccarthytv

Tag: evil

  • CIRCUS TRUTH

    The Program

    Circus Truth

    The television pukes in every corner bar,

    anchormen with porcelain teeth,

    their jaws, clacking wind-up dolls,

    selling fear like popcorn at the carnival.

    You don’t pick your truth anymore—

    it’s handed to you, pre-chewed,

    a soggy cigarette butt that’s passed around the alley and back.

    The left bleeds red ink,

    the right bleeds black bile,

    and the middle—

    there is no middle,

    just a beige carpet soaked with the bloody chunder of yesterday’s spin cycle.

    Every headline is a slot machine:

    pull the lever,

    watch the cherries line up to spell

    WAR, ASSASSINATION, PANIC, OUTRAGE, WOKE, UAP’S, THE SIMULATION.

    They give you “choice”

    like a prison cafeteria—

    mystery meat or a misery meet with sauce.

    And you nod,

    mouth full of microwaved narrative,

    because it’s all as good as plastic and BPA going down.

    The anchors smile,

    the podcasters scream,

    the Tik-Tokers beg to be put back in lockers.

    The news ticker scrolls like scripture,

    and the gospel is always the same:

    stay tuned, stay scared,

    stay stupid enough to buy what they’re selling.

    Meanwhile the truth—

    the real thing—

    squeezes into a clown suit,

    red nose, floppy shoes,

    juggling grenades for clicks.

    The crowd boos,

    but keeps buying tickets.

    That’s the joke, kid:

    truth doesn’t matter—

    the circus sells out anyway.

  • THANK YOU, DON LEMON

    A Memo from the Static

    (to whom it may concern — and it should concern you)

    Thank you, Don Lemon —

    for proving charisma is a rental car with the check engine light on.

    Thank you, Joy Behar —

    for reminding us that hysteria in high heels is still just hysteria.

    Thank you, Brian Stelter —

    for being the human form of a shrug wrapped in beige.

    Thank you, Rachel Maddow —

    for delivering panic with the pacing of a bedtime story for insomniacs.

    Thank you, Tucker Carlson —

    for staring into the camera like it owed you child support.

    Thank you, Anderson Cooper —

    for being the ghost of journalism, sipping gin in a silver spoon.

    Thank you, Bill Maher —

    for aging like a bottle of vinegar and thinking it’s wine.

    Thank you, every suit who ever told us what to think —

    while your hands stayed clean and your checks kept clearing.

    Thank you, algorithms —

    for serving us rage with a smile and selling our boredom by the pound.

    Thank you, influencers —

    for dying your hair, your souls, and your timelines until nothing meant anything.

    Thank you, virtue signalers —

    for raising flags you’d never carry into a real fight.

    And finally, thank you, silence —

    for being the only honest sound left in this whole goddamn circus.

    Signed,

    The Static

    (still here, still humming, waiting for the last face to fade)

  • Made to Burn

    The first cough was made to burn.

    Ground Zero.

    Not flu. Not fire.

    Just lies in the dust.

    Scraped the gut like a scream you can’t swallow.

    Drywall. Jet fuel. Names—crushed into lungs of heroes and suckers.

    Choking on someone else’s war story.

    Then, a second hand choke,

    Stole time and breath.

    Blamed it on bats,

    Same bastards, different lab.

    No sirens in the collective belfry. 

    Just dead numbers blinking red,

    stacked next to the Dow.

    No exits this time.

    We stayed put.

    Blue light.

    Masks.

    Muzzles.

    Watched each other rot

    through plexiglass and pixels. 

    Black lungs, shipped with orders from rooms with no echo.

    Paper trails—

    turned to ash before the ink could lie.

    Propaganda hit like a fix.

    Said it was freedom.

    Said it was safety.

    All I heard was America choking

    again—

    and the boots walking

    offstage.

  • Father of Madness

    “They say time heals all wounds.”

    Who in the fuck are they?

    Some bureaucrats of grief, clocking in, clocking out, wielding the second hand like a scalpel, deciding when the wound has been stitched,

    when the blood should dry,

    when the rage should settle into something softer.

    Time—the prison, the con artist, the liar.

    It doesn’t heal. It magnifies.

    It twists the knife while whispering lullabies.

    It counts the days like a debt collector, reminding me of every second Jack no longer breathes, and every hour the bastard who gave him poison does.

    And still, they tell me time is the answer.

    That I should let it pass, let it work.

    I want to take that very hand of time,

    the well-intended, patronizing hand,

    and smash it for 19 straight minutes

    with a dead blow hammer,

    until the gears stop turning,

    until the numbers scatter like broken teeth,

    until time itself finally understands

    what it means to be overwhelmingly crushed. 

    Miranda, devil in a hoodie, dealer for pocket change was never a scapegoat.

    He was a man who knew exactly what he handed over.

    I wonder if he ever wakes up sweating,

    if he ever feels the shadow behind him,

    if he ever senses the weight of me

    staring at the back of his skull.

    Sixty ways in a minute,

    three hundred sixty in an hour,

    eight thousand six hundred forty in a day—

    I could carve my grief into his flesh.

    I could become time,

    the father of madness,

    breaking him down into seconds,

    watching him beg for a mercy

    that he never gave to Jack.

    But there is no justice.

    Only the slow, excruciating unraveling of the world going around the sun, 

    where killers breathe and sons are buried.

    There is no closure, no grand moment of reckoning.

    There is only the hell of waking up each day,

    wishing for ghosts,

    praying for gruesome vengeance,

    and knowing—the only end is mine.

  • FATHER SICARIO

    The streets pulse like open veins, black tar slick, the night a slow bleeding thing. Neon hums. Buzzing flies. A dealer on the corner licking his lips, pulling at his collar like he knows. Like he smells it. The reek of old grief turned to something else. Something with teeth.

    I move through the alleyways, pockets heavy with ghosts, fingers tapping the weight of the thing inside my coat. Not a gun. No. Something older. Something sharper. A father’s rage honed to the edge.

    And then there’s the voice in my head, Del Toro-cool, a slow drawl:
    Jack is gone.
    Jack is gone.
    Jack is gone.

    And someone has to pay.

    I remember the last time I saw his hands—calloused, taped up, always ready for a fight. But he never saw this one coming. Didn’t know the rules. Didn’t know the game was rigged before he even stepped in the ring.

    He was a fighter.
    This dead city made him a corpse.

    I light a cigarette, let the smoke coil in my lungs. The dealer sees me now. A flicker of something in his eyes. Recognition? No, not yet. But he will.

    He shifts his weight, sniffs. He thinks I’m just another buyer. Another lost man looking to fill the hole in his chest with powder and promises.

    But I’m not here to buy.

    I’m here to collect.

    I step forward, slow, deliberate, the way a lion moves before the pounce. He starts to speak—some rehearsed pitch, some poison-laced gospel—but I cut him off.

    “Shut your mouth. You’ve already said enough.”

    And then I show him.

    The steel. The weight. The cold certainty of a father who has nothing left to lose.

    His hands go up. Shaking. Sweat pools in the hollow of his throat. A scared animal now. His mouth moves faster than his brain, words tumbling out, desperate, sloppy.

    “I—I didn’t know, man, I didn’t know, I swear! I just—It wasn’t personal.”

    And then there’s the voice in my head, Del Toro-cool, a slow drawl:
    “For me, it is personal.”

    I press the blade against his ribs, just enough for him to feel the promise behind it. I lean in close, my voice low, steady.

    Miranda, pleading like an 8-year-old, who’s lost his blanket and thinks crying will bring it back.

    “I didn’t know!”

    I’m somewhere between uncontrollable rage and elation, but 100% locked in the moment.

    “Well, now you do.”

    His breath stutters. A whimper caught in his throat.

    I exhale smoke in his face, watch the fear seep into his bones.

    No prayers.
    No deals.
    No mercy.

    Only the reckoning.

    FATHER SICARIO (Del Torro Cool)

  • Silence is the killer when you look the other way. (How virtuous)

    the newsreaders smirk behind the desk,

    their teeth polished white,

    their words unpolished and dull.

    the world’s on fire,

    but no one wants to say where the match came from.

    they shuffle papers,

    nod solemnly at the camera,

    and move on.

    next story.

    young girls with broken eyes walk streets that don’t care for them,

    their stories—

    torn, gutted, and stitched with silence.

    a thousand screams swallowed by a fear

    greater than justice,

    greater than truth—

    the fear of being called a name.

    racist. islamophobe.

    Or phrases like Resident Alien.

    they weigh heavier than the suffering of the small,

    the forgotten,

    the torn apart.

    the rapists walk free because the culture has grown soft,

    too soft to call evil by its name.

    and isn’t that convenient?

    for them, I mean.

    they know the game.

    play your cards right—

    and the good people will look the other way.

    good people.

    they don’t want to seem bad,

    don’t want to upset the order,

    don’t want to be labeled.

    better to let the girl bleed in a corner

    than risk being impolite.

    virtue signaling is the new religion.

    you wave the right flag,

    tweet the right slogan,

    kneel at the right altar—

    and you’re forgiven.

    it doesn’t matter what’s behind it:

    indifference,

    ignorance,

    or worse.

    the mask is enough.

    but what about the girls?

    the ones they pretend to care about?

    their bodies are battlegrounds

    for a war no one wants to admit is happening.

    the press won’t write it,

    the cops won’t fight it,

    and the priests of tolerance preach

    their sermons of silence.

    it’s a goddamn joke.

    we scream about progress,

    about justice,

    but only in the ways that won’t cost us anything.

    and the victims pile up in the shadows.

    this world isn’t just ass-backwards—

    it’s in full throttle reverse

    marching proudly backwards into oblivion

    while the banners of virtue flap overhead.

    but you can’t eat banners.

    you can’t heal wounds with hashtags.

    and you sure as hell can’t hide the blood forever.

    eventually,

    the truth crawls out of the dark.

    it always does.

    the question is:

    will anyone be left to give a damn when it does?

    (Remember when the U.K stood for something?)

  • Pending Doom of an Election

    A breed of their own, slinking through the cracks of D.C. like junkies hunting for a fix—

    power, money, control.

    Strip away the glossy suits and hollow speeches

    and watch the grand facade of kings and queens vanish.

    Behind the curtains of corruption, you’ll find commoners,

    servants trapped inside the illusion of superiority.

     

    They were meant to be janitors,

    fixing toilets and tax codes,

    no different than the man pushing a lawnmower,

    or slinging garbage into the back of a truck.

    They exist to serve, to clean up the wreckage,

    but somewhere along the way—on garbage day—

    they took a detour, plugged into the system like addicts,

    craving attention and worship like a freshly cooked, hot shot of heroine.  

     They were meant to be disposable,

    like cheap labor, background noise,

    used needles in a hazardous waste can, faceless and forgettable.

    This is my official announcement: the revolution won’t be on YouTube, X, or Instagram.

    260 million will take to the streets for a collective reminder—

    these pawns are nothing but functionaries,

    meat for the grinder.

     

    We will teach them how to earn their keep like the rest of us,

    hired hands who forgot what they signed up for.

    Let’s put brooms in their filthy briefcases and watch them clean the mess they’ve made.

    Pending Doom of an Election