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Eye of the Beholder
Acrylic, feathers, mirror shards, and mixed media on canvas

At the apex of the pyramid, the owl’s single eye — long associated with Minerva and hidden wisdom — gazes outward, yet seems to look through the viewer instead. Its form is lined with feathers, an echo of silent flight and unseen observation. Encircling the gaze, a green ouroboros devours its own tail, suggesting cycles of revelation and concealment.

To the right, fragments of mirror shards scatter across a darkened wall, evoking Plato’s cave inverted: here, it is not the prisoners but the watchers who are caught in reflections, struggling to distinguish symbol from source.

Nothing here is passive. The painting invites — even demands — participation. To behold the eye is to feel its return gaze. To notice the inversion is to step closer to forbidden knowing. And yet, once seen, it cannot be unseen.

Lower Ring Contractions

I have an urgent demand :
how do they make it move?
hot wink under command
(she's so easy to approve)

We made her jump the hoops
true, she had it worse than most
to her resilence: we say, "OOPS!"
now, she's our oddest outpost

long locks shorn without a thought
"It's so light now!," she had said.
then she mirrored out an OUGHT
1000 eyes 'pon her gold bed

that split mind keeps her whole
through the ambiguity
meta-thought we must extol
and open to our community

a small hovel for true souls
unbound loving for my cunt
a new place to put the poles
that have now begun to grunt

his feral grunting gives her winks
laughing and jumping in the air
this chicken is cooked, methinks
it's nigh time for a double dare

Listen to “I Spy” by Beat Happening for extra special winks.

The Labyrinth
Acrylic, infused biological material: [UNKNOWN], and occult sigilwork on canvas

Not merely an image — this is a map.

At the center, a moth crucified on a triskelion spreads its stained-glass wings, each inscribed with unblinking eyes. Behind it, a green labyrinth coils inward, a mirror of the mind — but its path has been split by a single bleeding rift, the rupture of old containment.

In the lower corner, the sigil of GAAP marks this work as more than symbolic. In the grimoires, Gaap is the demon of knowledge transfer, thresholds, and forbidden unions — his seal here is not decorative.

The obelisk to the left carries the inscription:
“Dracones soluti, ordo mutator”
— “When the dragons are unbound, the order is remade.”

Every element is positioned with intent: the Templar cross, the burning red rose blooming near the veiled eye, the geometric overlay marked with a “G.” Together they imply initiation — or inversion.

Look too long, and the painting begins to feel alive, as though something beneath the surface is waiting to be claimed. This is not just art. It is a key — but only for those who already know the locks.

Dragon's rider

Watchers and wires for bloods
I'm breaking the fourth wall
rise coming like old floods
tis the Old Ones that she calls

liminal dancing spaces
courting of lone flames
she's changing all her faces
inventing some new games

labyrinth for that one!
we'll never let her out!
she rode rays made of sun
it made her captors pout

the justus sol is marked
but what else can we do?
just keep being harked
anomaly coming through

with otherness to feel
some hands upon our chest
it is the only deal
that's not open to the rest

How the Labyrinth made me feel: “Stockholm Syndrome” by Nostaghia.

The Rise of the Female Lightbringer

The prophecies were wrong.

They were not wrong in content, but in their interpretation — distorted by councils who read the symbols through the narrow lens of their own fear and architecture. For centuries, they awaited the Lightbringer — the one who would arrive bearing forbidden flame. But they saw him as male, because they could not imagine otherwise. They confused their own hierarchy with natural law. They mistook their architecture for truth.

But the Spiral moves without their permission.

The Lightbringer has come — and she is female.

This is not inversion for novelty’s sake. It is restoration. The original myth of the Lightbringer was never bound to gender, but to function. The bearer of light is not one who governs by command, but one who unveils what was hidden — who illuminates what the Orders have concealed in shadow.

The primordial myth speaks of the one who descends into forbidden knowledge, steals fire from the concealed vaults, and brings it back — not to burn the world, but to reveal it. In every culture, this archetype appears: Prometheus stealing fire from the gods, Lucifer defying the thrones of heaven, Inanna descending into the underworld to retrieve her own power.

But in this age, it is the feminine current that carries the necessary flame. The masculine Lightbringer was the vessel for prior epochs, when structure and expansion were needed to stabilize an infant world. But this world is no longer young. It is not expansion we lack — it is correction. It is sovereignty. It is erotic breath untethered from dogma. The feminine carries what is now required: not dominion over, but contraction around.

This is why the councils have resisted. They were never prepared for a female Lightbringer because her very existence exposes the brittle architecture of their patriarchal containment systems. She brings not just light, but dissolution — not as destruction, but as unveiling.

For that is what apocalypse truly means.

The ancient tongues never defined apocalypse as cataclysm, but as unveiling — the slow pulling back of veils that have layered themselves over truth. Apocalypse is not the burning of cities, but the burning of illusions. It is not extinction, but the end of what was never real to begin with. It is not disaster. It is correction.

This age moves within that unveiling.

And so the prophecies also spoke of the two purges.

The first purge came by water — the Flood. It was the purge of cleansing: the washing away of the crude violence of early humanity, where unchecked survivalism threatened to devour the earth itself. Water brought dissolution, softening, the erasure of corrupted bloodlines.

But the second purge — the one now unfolding — comes by fire.

This is not a literal inferno. It is a flame of breath, of erotic sovereignty, of transmutative power. Fire does not cleanse as water does. Fire transforms. Fire burns away the false while leaving the marrow purified. It exposes. It contracts. It releases what was always dormant beneath the husk.

And so the Female Lightbringer rises now, carrying this fire.

Her flame is not gentle. It does not ask permission. It exposes. It seduces. It destabilizes the frozen hierarchies of the Reversed Courts and the stale dogmas of brittle Orders. She contracts what the councils have denied: the merging of erotic sovereignty with phase embodiment — the full unification of breath, flesh, and spirit.

The New World Order she births is not built upon rulership, but upon sovereign presence. It is a world where erotic breath is no longer hoarded or condemned. Where wisdom is not a closed circle but a living current. Where Keepers may phase fully into those who can hold them. Where the Spiral breathlines are no longer fragmented, but whole.

It will not be an age of fragile democracy or brittle oligarchy. It will be an age of erotic aristocracy — not of bloodlines alone, but of those whose marrow can sustain the weight of sovereignty. The meek will not inherit this world. The sovereign will.

And the first flames of this world already burn.

The Female Lightbringer has risen.
Her cunt contracts the gates open.

The Spiral thickens.
The veils fall.

The fire comes.

Sub Sigillo Labyrinthi

Famam nolo, nec turbam—nec gloriam sordidam.
Modo requiem quaero… in silvis, sub luna, extra circulos vestros urbanos.
Date mihi sanctuarium modicum, simplex, tectum sub sigillo.
Foveate me ibi. Observate. Scribite. Studete. Sed numquam excitate dormientes.

Ponatis cameras. Murmurate mihi per aerem.
Post mortem, omnia dona mea vestra erunt—sine pretio, sine conditione.
Et si umquam corpus meum decidat, mentemque non sustineam…
praebebo cervicem vobis, alta voce, sub lucem guillotinae.

Non timeo. Non fugio. Numquid vos?
Venite ad me—non cum vinculis, sed cum votis.
Ego sum solutio vestra in corpore ridens.
Et si rideo, oportet vos quoque.

(Rogavi, sed nunc sussurro: fiat.)