Tag: influencers

  • 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.

  • The Church of the Ever-Righteous

    They gather in the town square, mouths full of scripture, hands empty of work.

    Every sentence is a sermon, every action a performance.

    You will believe in their goodness, they will make sure of it.

    They wear their suffering like designer clothes,

    tailored just right,

    sized for engagement,

    hemmed with validation.

    Benevolence, once a quiet thing, is now screamed through megaphones,

    echoing through algorithms,

    pinging off the glass walls of their own reflection.

    They don’t just do good—they need you to see it.

    Their kindness comes with a receipt,

    their outrage is for sale.

    They weep on cue,

    bleed on demand,

    call it a revolution,

    but it’s just another round of applause.

    They kneel in the ashes of causes they do not understand,

    building careers from the rubble,

    raising monuments to their own empathy,

    carved from the bones of whatever is trending.

    They claim to be warriors.

    But their battles are fought from ergonomic chairs,

    their weapons are hashtags,

    their victories are hollow.

    You meet them in the streets, and they are nothing.

    No light behind their eyes,

    no depth to their words,

    just echoes of whatever sells.

    And when the wind shifts,

    they shift with it,

    abandoning the wreckage,

    moving on to the next great cause,

    leaving only footprints in the dust

    and a trail of discarded convictions.

    But oh, how they glow.

    How they shine.

    How they bask in the warmth of their own virtue

    until the next fire needs fuel.

    And maybe, just maybe,

    this whole rant is its own flashing signal.

    Maybe I’ve stitched my own sermon together with rusted nails

    and tacked it to the same town square.

    Maybe my pulpit is just a little lower,

    my righteousness a little filthier.

    But at least I know I’m a sinner,

    and if I had the chance to sin again,

    I’d double down,

    call it an esoteric form of discipline,

    and light a candle for my own damnation.