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.
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.