Jamiemccarthytv

Tag: provocative

  • 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.

  • Well Preserved for the Funeral Home

    Most people will die with their bodies in damn good shape.
    Neatly kept, clean, like they were waiting for the mortician all along.
    A few crow’s feet, maybe a little sag around the chin,
    but overall—good enough for the open casket.

    The funeral director will nod,
    “Looks just like them,” they’ll say.
    As if that’s some kind of fucking achievement.

    But then there’s us—
    The ones who didn’t treat life like a goddamn waiting room.
    We come in with screws in our bones, plates in our heads,
    scars running across our skin like crude roadmaps.
    We come in with cigarette burns, busted knuckles,
    wrinkles earned in back alleys, in bars, in love, in wars in octagon of life
    (physical, emotional, financial—pick your poison).

    Our hands don’t look soft because they weren’t.
    Our ribs might have been cracked, our teeth chipped,
    and our hearts—
    well, our hearts certainly don’t come in mint condition.

    No embalmer can fix what life did to us.
    No makeup can paint over the shit we’ve been through.
    They might try to sew up the damage,
    smooth out the years,
    but some things don’t hide.

    And maybe that’s the point.
    Maybe it’s better to arrive at the end,
    not looking like a goddamn mannequin,
    but like someone who actually lived.

  • Posthumously Me

    I spent nights of violence

    wrestling with demons,

    scribbling truths on napkins,

    each word a battle

    lost and won.

    The world slept

    my mind never woke

    but always awake

    the weight of existence and the absurdity of it all gave me that heavy chest

    But they never noticed,

    never cared,

    while I was here.

    I was just another voice in the din,

    a face in the crowd, but now that I’m gone,

    they sing my praises,

    laud my genius,

    hold my words like sacred relics.

    Dissect my verses, analyze my syntax,

    and claim to know the depths of my soul.

    Teach my pain in classrooms,

    quote my anguish at parties,

    a chorus of misunderstanding.

    Totally mistaking the grit and the grime,

    and the blood on the page as something I didn’t love, because it couldn’t hurt me.

    For fuck’s sake, I spent my days chasing shadows,

    grappling with the mundane,

    tied to the grindstone

    a cigarette in hand and the bottle of my solace close to empty.

    And the world oblivious and indifferent to their misinformed applause.

    Maybe the despair wasn’t so quiet, I did write with the ink of my own blood

    Screamy paper and deaf tone dreams, was all it was

    I never heard them just as they never saw me

    It’s only when I was gone, the chair was empty,

    and the light had faded,

    they came to notice me

    the brilliance in the mess,

    the truth in the madness.

    Pouring over my every word

    like holy scripture,

    seeking meaning in the chaos.

    They say my name with an unfamiliar reverence

    toast to my genius and tortured soul.

    They find beauty in the pain,

    wisdom in my godawful ramblings,

    calling me a prophet of the damned, a seer of the sordid.

    Holy fuck, are they misguided.

    It’s the cruel joke God plays on us

    for it’s not until the silence settles, and dust on the pen gets blown through the paper with the echoes of my last breath, they finally hear it.

    But they only see the surface, at best

    the pretty lies they tell themselves,

    and wrap my chaos in neat little boxes,

    polish the rough edges,

    making me a saint

    when I was always a sinner at best.

    And there it is,

    clear as a living day,

    they praise me but get it all wrong.

    They don’t know the man behind the prose

    the heart that was black and blue

    or the life that bled into those lines.

    They didn’t know me then and they cannot know me now, son.

    In death, I am god

    but not in the way that matters.

    They see the legend,

    but miss a man stumbling through the dark,

    trying to make sense of nonsense,

    searching for a spark in the ashes

    while laughing his ass off the entire ride.

  • Mediocrity (Ignore Everything I Wrote)

    Mediocrity

    Embrace the futile pursuit of some obscure designer lingerie called Agent Provocateur because, obviously, the key to reviving a relationship is to awaken the lifeless corpse that’s been hiding under the covers for far too long.

    Lavish yourself with Gucci, Louis Vuitton, and the overt indulgent, creepy pedophiles at Balenziaga because materialism cures all existential despair, right? Oh, and don’t forget that iPhone 15 that never leaves the clutches of your carpal tunnel-afflicted hands, a sheer masterpiece of exploitation, crafted by modern-day sorcerer children in a sauna they call an office somewhere in a COVID-infested Chinese cellar.
    Stick it nonchalantly into your coat pocket, ignoring empathy and instead celebrating the evolution of a digitally connected sixth finger that you might as well shove up your ass before the whole shit house goes nuclear.
    Of course, we mustn’t neglect the holy trinity of social media: TikTok, SNAPCHAT, and Instagram – the ultimate trifecta of meaningless validation. Spew the vile yet mundane nothingness of your existence, writing paragraph upon paragraph in excruciating detail because nothing says ‘I’m alive’ like sharing your breakfast choices, bowel movements, and Cinnabon recipes, even if it means ignoring the glaring truth that no one gives a fuck.
    And, while you’re scrolling through the virtual assembly line of wall to wall shit, stalk ex-flames, comparing their train wrecks to your dumpster fire while subconsciously hoping for any flicker of validation.
    Get a tattoo that reads “personal privacy is for losers” as you realize all of humanity is just an Excel sheet of cold data… then get on Snapchat in hopes of squashing that mountain of anxiety growing in your chest, only to score some cheap, counterfeit Xanax made by a slimy Sinaloa cartel terrorist who’s loaded it with enough Fentanyl to wipe out an entire sorority.
    And then, in an act of pure disassociation and impulse, embrace your inner stand-up comedian, by joking about sensitive topics you scream out-loud in overcrowded elevators, “not a single fucking life matters, so why not get the abortion, or don’t, have that tax write off and let the baby change its gender when she turns four”
    Hope you get canceled because nothing’s funnier than human suffering with no hope of redemption.
    Reinvent historical events, or better yet, pretend they never happened, especially if they don’t fit the lie of your twisted narrative.
    Embrace losing yourself in the maze of a 9-to-5 cubicle farm that slowly crushes the soul from those hipster sneakers you once bought for 12 dollars at a flea market. All while telling yourself, ‘see, I’m not shallow .’
    And pass this legacy of despair down to your children because suffering is a family heirloom, after all.
    Cherish your unfulfilled promises as they gather dust alongside the mantel of participation trophies and shattered dreams.
    Bask in the glow of your own repeated failures like a moth drawn to the same broken lightbulb.
    Observe the déjà vu of history because originality is overrated, and everything new is just something old and forgotten.
    Embrace that you’re merely, at best, below average, hide your tears with a smile, kiss your loved ones goodbye, one disappointment at a time.
    Fade away into obscurity, bit by bit, until you’re nothing but a distant memory to your own mother.
    Fall in love with this joke, this depressing carnival of life, and embrace every last ounce of mediocrity straight to the grave.

  • So, you want to be a producer?

    So, you’re itching to surf the savage swells of production, eager to plummet into the void where the only beacon is the frenzied luminescence of creativity colliding with deadlines? Strap in, for you’re about to embark on an expedition through the annals of time, escorted by tales of the damned, navigating through the chaos with nothing but sheer audacity.

    Let’s kick this off with a smidge of history, tinged with the cosmic irony of a universe so bizarre it might have sprung from the depths of a George Lucas fever dream. Picture this: the Producer of old, nothing more than a watchman, rooted beside their mailbox, longing for the day “a job” might land in their lap. A silent guardian, never daring to question the narrative, the purpose, or the mechanics. Simply a vessel for another’s dream.

    Now, let me take you down a rabbit hole of personal revelation, through the lens of a career that’s ricocheted between the peaks of award-winning euphoria and the gutters of despair so deep, they’d make Dante’s Inferno seem like a stroll in the park. From crafting ads that snagged accolades, steering documentaries and Super Bowl commercials, to navigating the stratosphere as a Chief Creative Officer, I’ve worn the hats. Yet, the role that tested the very fabric of my being was that of the Producer, and for a spell, the Executive Director of Integrated Production. Amidst the pomp and circumstance of public victories, I’ve danced with demons in the shadowy recesses of failure and self-doubt. Hence, I preach: confidence is but a fleeting specter for us mortals.

    ADVANCE—

    Catapult to the tumultuous now of 2024, where lounging idly, fingers intertwined, awaiting the muse’s grace or a project’s embrace, is as archaic as the analog tones of dial-up. The modern Producer is an entity unto themselves: a renegade, a disruptor in the creative tapestry, a bringer of bedlam and brilliance. Gone are the days of mere paper-pushing and deadline wrangling; behold the digital circus’s ringmaster, synchronizing the celestial dance of stars and strategy from inception.

    My tenure taught me the audacity to compete, to present ideas and scripts not as bids for glory, but as offerings to the collective genius. Beware, for if the shadow of bureaucracy and the specter of politics deter you, this path is fraught with peril. My method? Relentless toil. A dash of competitive zeal blended seamlessly with an unyielding spirit of camaraderie. Present your ideas with open palms—gifts to those who find them worthy. This isn’t about accolades; it’s about being an indispensable arsenal, a beacon of tenacity and resilience amidst the inevitable storms of rejection.

    In your odyssey, you may align with digital seers, strategy savants, and the odd account executive (their numbers etched in your mental Rolodex). Should you possess the audacity, you might just ignite a project with a mere hunch, a flutter of innovation, or a gadget that catches your fancy. Dare to whisper, “Behold,” and watch the dominoes tumble.

    Is there a knot in your stomach? Excellent. That’s the essence of challenge permeating the air. Echoing the sage words of Seth Godin, the true arena lies in igniting the flame of innovation without a formal summons. The realm is sparse, populated by those few souls brave enough to court the ire of the creative deities. Yet, having battled in these trenches, I assure you, the pantheon of creativity craves not solitude but the spark of collaboration.

    Questioning, probing, diving into the abyss with eyes wide open—this becomes your shield, your lance. In an epoch where the pace of demand transcends sound, your inquisitiveness will illuminate the shadows, revealing treasures hidden well beyond the confines of the brief. You need not the laurels of academia to conquer this domain, only the raw courage to dream, to forge, to steer your vessel through the maelstrom, and dock upon the shores of the Imaginative beyond.

    If you enter the fray, merely a cog, obedient and unassuming, you squander a seat that might have been filled by a revolutionary. It’s a simple task to fade into the background, to nod in acquiescence, to play the part of the obedient soldier. Yet, in shunning the challenge, in eschewing the call to arms, you are not merely stationary; you are in retreat.

    So, as you traverse the urban sprawl or meander through the morning’s quietude, whisper to yourself: I am the Creative Producer of 2024. Fearless. Focused. A maelstrom of passion and purpose, defying the chains of bureaucracy, weaving through the mire of negativity, embracing the winds of change with every fiber of my existence. I am the vanguard of evolution, a harbinger of what’s to come. And so, as the first light of dawn breaches the horizon, a reminder: This journey, this odyssey through the kaleidoscopic chaos of creation, began with a simple, yet profound query—do you dare to navigate the tempestuous seas of production?

    The gauntlet, tossed at your feet amidst the ruins of convention and the specter of the mundane, beckons. It’s more than a challenge; it’s a call to arms for those brave enough to wrestle with the abyss, where the only beacons are your wit, your will, and the wild heart that beats within.

    Do you pick it up? Because remember, my soon-to-be frazzled friend, in the grand tapestry of creation, it’s not just about surviving the tempest—it’s about becoming the storm.