Lardverse is a multiverse—a polyphonic bomb in mid-explosion. Lard’s storyline folds into itself, defying linearity, coherence, and containment.

Born from the ashes of personal tragedy, Lard built a volcano inside his house. What began as an act of survival became an ever-evolving mythos: a living performance, a black hole of grief, devotion, and rebirth.

Lard does not make art. Lard makes Lard. His life is the dissertation—an embodied, recursive argument confronting identity, power, death, and resurrection on his own terms.

Through the volcanic lens of dream-theater, Lard celebrates and critiques masculinity, the male gaze, and inherited legacies. As a man born with a vagina, he casts himself as both the mythic Sun and the shadow it throws—colonizer and colonized, rapist and raped, capitalist and collapse. In outing himself as the terrorist, Lard becomes the suicide bomber of the institution—blowing up the narrative from within and forcing new mythologies to rise.

Lardverse is not an artwork—it is a threshold. A soul-world. A sacred farce.
If we are living in the end times, then the Lardverse marks the beginning of something else.

Not survival. Not spectacle.
But the rebirth that comes only after you’ve already died.