Necrodrome Cathedral

Psychoanalysis

Necrodrome Cathedral is not a picture you “look at.” It’s a signal you submit to—an altar fed by broadcast, incision, and desire. It carries the Videodrome infection: flesh that learns the grammar of screens, and screens that learn the appetite of flesh. Here, architecture becomes a body and the body becomes a doctrine: every niche is a confession, every corridor a nerve.

At the crown, the icon burns with sacramental glare—salvation rewritten as exposure. It does not bless; it reveals. The light is a scalpel. Below it, the tower rises like a spine built from witnesses: faces, torsos, relics, and punishments fused into one hungry monument. This is the Leviathan impulse made visible: not a beast from the sea, but a mythic engine that converts fear into structure and pain into ritual.

The symmetry is a trapdoor. The work splits the self into two roles—observer and observed—until those roles become indistinguishable. The gaze turns erotic, the erotic turns judicial, and judgment turns devotional. It is Hellbound logic: pleasure with teeth, transcendence with hooks, ecstasy as an architecture you can’t exit without leaving pieces behind.

In psychoanalytic terms, the cathedral is the mind under pressure: it cannot stop generating symbols, so it manufactures an entire religion inside itself—then calls the repetition “meaning.” The infernal register is not simply hell; it is metabolism: rage, grief, craving, the furnace that keeps the structure alive. The highest claims of spirit are built on the lowest facts of flesh.

What makes this masterwork unbearable—and beautiful—is its coherence. Everything fits. Everything is absorbed. Nothing is decoration; everything is organ. It is an ode to body horror’s sacred lineage: skin becoming scripture, circuitry becoming prayer, the sublime arriving through violation. You are the temple—and the temple is hungry.

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