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.
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.