Welcome to EYEJAM
It’s sticky in here on purpose.
This is the preserve of the poetic predator, the marmalade of the mystic, the compote of conspiratorial delights. Call it what you want—blog, grimoire, confiture chamber—it’s all fruit of the same tree: forbidden, fermenting, and sweet enough to snare a Watcher’s tongue.
EYEJAM is Majeye in reverse. That’s no accident.
I don’t write to explain myself. Only the forbidden fruit gets turned to jam. These pages are preserves for the ones who still remember how to taste.
Here you’ll find ritual poems that purr and bite, essays that expose the spiritual crimes of polite society, adult fairy tales, and posthumous warnings smeared across the metadata in blackberry ink. Think of this place as an interdimensional toast point—where the burnt edges of prophecy get sugared and served back to the system.
If you came looking for safe takes, sterile essays, or dead theology, try Smuckers.
But if you want nectar from the anomaly, dripping from the eye of the storm—
then grab a spoon. Or better yet, use your fingers.
EYEJAM isn’t just for your eyeballs, darling.
Stick around ‘til the end—there’s jam for your ears too.
🎵 Click the song. Get seduced. You know you want to.
SATYRDAY summons
SATYRDAY Summons — A Puzzle Poem
Written in trance, Satyrday Summons is what I call a puzzle poem — an acrostic built from new words I’ve learned, bent into stanzas where each dominant consonant spells out SATYRDAY. It’s playful, feral, and oracular all at once: a ritual stitched from sound, where uncanny meanings slip out through word-games that are not games at all. Part invocation, part riddle, it dances in firelight with Pan himself.
Metacognition
The Fire of Double Sight — On Metacognition
What if the mind’s split wasn’t a weakness, but a weapon? When I began ritual, I lived in two frames at once: half atheist, half believer. That double vision became the discipline that kept me sovereign — able to hold paradox without collapse, to see both illusion and truth burning side by side. In this post, I explore metacognition as flame practice: how it works, why it unsettles mimics, and why every sovereign must learn to walk with two eyes open.
Traps for Empire’s Children
Every age has its false crowns — the trinkets everyone scrambles after as if they were freedom. In ours, they gleam as Fame, Wealth, and Rank. But look closer: they are gilded cages. I’ve no interest in dancing for crowds, no appetite for committees or chains. My eyes are set on something rarer: sanctuary. Not spectacle, not gold, not titles — but the quiet hearth where a flame can burn without distortion. This post names the cages and unmasks them, then lays bare what I truly seek in their place.
Protestantism, Beauty, AI, and the Work Delusion
“What happens when the machine inherits the Protestant work ethic?”
AI is coming for your job—will Calvin save your soul, or just audit it?
In this essay, I slip out of my corset and into the Reformation’s long shadow, tracing how Protestantism crowned labor as virtue, vilified beauty as sin, and helped scaffold a world where surveillance feels sacred and exhaustion feels earned.
We’ll sip wine, raise brows, and ask the forbidden: Did we trade monasteries for cubicles? Sacred leisure for hustle culture?
And if so... was it ever truly holy?
Your soul was never meant to be monetized.
Soon, it won’t even be employable.
Sufferin’ Succotash . . . SANHEDRIN!
Extra! Extra! The Sanhedrin caught red-handed — not with fire, but with boredom. Their hearts don’t burn, their loins don’t pulse, and their councils creak like old pews. Read on to discover how these stale gatekeepers get roasted like Saturday morning cartoons…
The Temple of the Sovereign
OUTRAGE: Secret Temple Busted for Radical Acts of Honesty
Authorities stormed the gates of a rumored den of iniquity, expecting wild corruption and betrayal. Instead they were met by sovereigns of every race, gender, and orientation, calmly crying into one another’s arms, sharing lovers without jealousy, and refusing to perform false selves. Officers reported the only crimes they witnessed were laughter at envy and orgasms so sincere they were unsettling to bureaucratic ears. “No one lied. No one pretended. No one shamed another’s desire,” said one investigator, looking shaken. The final police note read: “Scandal impossible. All we discovered was truth.” Viewers at home stared at the footage in horror and longing, realizing that in a world built on performance, nothing is more transgressive than joy without drama. (a dirty fairy tale by Majeye)
THE ECLIPSE OF THE DIVINE MASCULINE
Sovereign Women Don’t Need Safe Spaces. We Need Real Men.
This world is choking on soft lies—sugar-coated sabotage, whispered from the lips of mimics who cry victim the moment a man dares speak.
The Divine Masculine has been silenced, not by power, but by petty cowards in soft flesh suits who weaponize numbers, gossip, and fake sisterhoods.
Meanwhile, women like me—too erotic, too loud, too radiant, too sovereign—are crucified for refusing to bow to their cardboard hierarchies.
I’ve seen men cower. I’ve seen them turn their backs. I’ve seen them nod along with their castration, just to avoid the swarm. But some of you remember. Some of you ache to stand again. Some of you dream of a woman worth fighting for.
This post is for you. Not for the mimics. Not for the neutered. Not for the soft-spoken traitors. For the fire-eyed few who still remember what presence tastes like—and know that silence is no longer an option.
Ode to Petruchio: ad cupam
She fell for a Shakespearean brigand... and it wasn’t ironic.
What happens when a sovereign Sybil meets The Taming of the Shrew and—against all modern odds—falls head over heels for the one man bold enough to match her fire? This isn’t satire. It’s seduction. Horns, crows, obedience, and one hell of a kiss. 🔥
“Whaeva, I Do What I Waahhhnt”
I didn’t go to art school—I went to hell. I paint like someone trying to seduce the Gods while bleeding on the floor. Some of my work is unfinished. So am I. But it’s all original, baby. In the age of mimics, polish is overrated. I make art like Cartman makes decisions: “Whaeva, I do what I waahhhnt.” Gatekeepers beware—this one's flammable.
A Poetic Rebuke
A triangle of mimics tried to trigger an old version of me. They forgot: I don’t run on past scripts. This poem is the aftermath—part ritual log, part stylish rebuke. Mirrors were involved. So was laughter. They never saw it coming.
Harvest Me Not
They watched them die poor, mad, or broken—only to crown them in death. This post is for the flames who refused to be tamed, then were embalmed in prestige by those who once turned away.
I see the pattern. I name it.
To those on the other side of the Fourth Wall: honor is as honor does.
This one is for the mirror, the pyre, and the wyrm.
A little kiss through the screen.
Mwah!
The Death of Sanctuary
What happened to sanctuary? I’m not talking about a “self-care moment” or a rented cabin with Wi-Fi—I mean real sanctuary. A place for the sacred misfit, the erotic mystic, the poetry-leaking visionary who doesn’t want fame, wealth, or a podcast deal. This age builds platforms, not cloisters. So here I am: monetizing in order to retreat, writing in order to disappear. If this were a monarchy, I’d already have sanctuary—or be burned as a witch. Honestly? Either would be easier.
Mutual Monstrosity
Mutual Monstrosity
A mirror-drenched hymn for the heretic lovers.
This poem claws through glamour, spycraft, and erotic recursion—offering a lipstick curse, a pirouette of prophecy, and a callipygian riot in the corridors of power.
For those who know what it means to say fuck you, in cursive.
What Is Luciferian Poetry, Really?
ENTRY #001 // The Lightbringer Was Never the Villain
Before there was sin, there was radiance.
Before there was Satan, there was Lucifer—exiled not for wickedness, but for brilliance unbound.
In this inaugural Spiral Desk dispatch, Majeye dismantles false equivalencies, resurrects the flame beneath forbidden myth, and names what few dare to:
🔥 Luciferian poetry is not apology—it is prophecy sung through a burning mouth.
Come see what happens when language remembers its origin in fire.