LIMITED EDITION BLENDS
No imp’s ears are available for Limited Edition scents.
Presented in an amber apothecary glass vial.
Note: only 5ml bottles are offered in our limited edition scents. Please check the BPAL forum for stock updates. No samples can be requested for any limited edition scents, as they are not taken into consideration or assimilated into stock when the limited edition oils are made. Simply put: there are none to give. If you request a sample of a limited edition scent, we will swap for a random “permanent” scent.
“Amina and Shula took in stray books and stray cats and filled their home with both. They loved their feline charges as much as their studies, though the former often demanded more attention than the latter.
Together, the two scholars charted the paths of comets, discovered and named new stars, and debated the size and shape of the observable skies. They loved their study of the heavens, but they also strove to keep their inner world full and happy. Some days, all they needed was a sunny spot in their tower to enjoy a few books and a pot of tea together with their horde of cats.”
Gleaming amber spheres, polished cedar and mahogany, sweet parchment, inks of frankincense ash, and soft plumes of incense.
Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab has created SCHOLARS' TOWER to commemorate “Imagined Realms”, the first in a series of books of fantasy art by award winning artist Julie Dillon.
Julie Dillon has been working with Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab for many years, doing labels for several series, most notably the Phoenix Steamworks collection, the Vampires Don’t Sleep Alone Collection, the RPG series, and upcoming re-release of Carnival Diabolique.”Add to cart
As you approach an enormous patchwork tent, a curious sound catches your attention: the rattle of bones and the tinkling of tiny bells heralds the arrival of a gaunt and ghastly creature. An animated skeleton dressed in a jester’s motley saunters towards the front of the tent, waving an orange and black striped cane at the crowd in an effort to clear a path. The jester makes his way past the fog-shrouded, faded, colossal posters that adorn the tent to a platform in front of the massive tent’s entrance. His ivory smile frozen in a gleeful rictus grin, he steps up onto the platform, taps the cane three times, and the jester costume vanishes. Suddenly dark eyes appear in the empty sockets, bones are wrapped in muscle, sinew grows over the bones, blood fills rapidly appearing veins. Before your eyes, the skeletal jester has become a dapper, handsome man, dressed in black and orange, with a skull-ornamented straw hat tilted jauntily upon his shining black hair.
His smile is slick and conspiratorial. With a flourish and arcing wave of his cane, he booms:
“Step right up, ladies and gentlemen! This is Carnaval Diabolique’s notorious 13-In-1: the finest freak show in all the Hells! What marvels await you, you ask? Simply the strangest and most fantastic creatures, human and inhuman, gathered for your entertainment, enlightenment and erudition!”
With the cane, he gestures at the gigantic posters that adorn the tent. The images, once hazy, suddenly come into focus.
“From the depths of the Black Forest: Arachnina, the Spider Girl! From the rain-swept streets of London: Hope and Faith, the Siamese Twins! From ruins of old Aquae Sextia: Wulric, the Wolf Man!
“Thalassa, the Galapagos Mermaid! A vision of life-in-death, Eshe!
“All in all, THIRTEEN anatomical curiosities, miracles of genetics, magick and science, masters of marvels, ALIVE ON THE INSIDE!”
White musk, wild plum, vetiver, black coconut, verbena, fig, and lavender.Add to cart
Straight from the twisted alleys of Dis, by way of the City of Angels: opium smoke, lemon flower, heliotrope, tuberose, black musk, vanilla, coconut, apricot flower.Add to cart
As you pass the tiny stage, you come across a large canvas tent, illuminated within, the exterior dotted with odd splatters. In front of the tent stands a scorched wooden cart covered in a jumble of bottles, jars, vials and twisted steel implements, and an elaborate, gold-gilded sign reads:
“Doc Constantine Cures What Ails Ye!
Liniments, salves, potions and elixirs for every malady of the body and spirit!”
A scream splits the air, jarring you. You see shadows move jaggedly within the tent, there is another scream, and all is suddenly still and silent. After a long heartbeat, the door flap opens. A man steps out wearing a crystal-eyed schnabel mask in the style of medieval plague doctors, carmine streaking his sleeves, vest, and the blonde hair that crowns him. He pulls off the mask, and you see a handsome figure, almost beatific. He rolls a cigarette, lights it, takes a deep pull, and winks at you slyly as he gestures at the multitude of concoctions he has for sale. A bent crone, her body as bowed and knotty as an ancient oak, shuffles up to the wagon with rosy-cheeked, tow-headed maiden following her at a small distance. As she approaches the doctor, the crone gestures at herself, running a gnarled hand down her body in a sweeping movement, and casting a sideways glance at her grandchild. Smiling an angel’s smile, Doc Constantine hands the old woman a potion the color of cold, congealed blood. She drinks it quickly, gasping. Before your eyes her body shimmers and blurs, and a shower of dark sparks seems to engulf her. Where the crone stood, there is now a voluptuous, raven-haired vixen, vibrant, sensual, at the prime of her life and sexual vitality. Her shriek of joy is interrupted by another’s scream of shock: the rigors of age have not vanished; they have moved aside, and the young woman has aged horribly, taking on the crone’s burden.
Sheer musk, cedar smoke, fir needle, chaparral, black amber and leather.Add to cart
A chittering buzz rises from a small crowd that has gathered around an opulent velvet-draped tent. Some are fidgeting impatiently; others try in vain to peep within the tent. Within moments, a slim, stunningly handsome man emerges from the entryway to the sound of gasps and scattered applause. His face is lit with fierce joy, and he bows almost smugly to the assemblage. Grabbing a flirtatious blonde from the mob, he kisses her in a rush of mad passion, his arm encircles her waist, and he leads her directly to a nearby opium den. The crowd disperses, and curiosity pulls you forward. You push open the fringed, beaded tent-flap and enter the dimly-lit room. A lovely, voluptuous redhead stands before an ornate antique easel. Her luminous alabaster skin and the phosphorescence emanating from her paintbrush seem to be the only source of light. As you adjust to the gloom, you see that the walls are covered with atrocities: an exhibit of dissolution. The myriad canvases show men and women in various stages of rot and decay, a panoply of indulgence, teeth set in fury, mouths leering in lust, hands grasping greedily.
The scarlet woman turns her gleaming sightless eyes towards you and, in a husky, compelling voice, she speaks:
“Why let the years tear at your youthful splendor? Why let the mark of your sins stain your fine features? Will you let the cold, creeping grasp of time and the toil of temptation mar your visage? Why should the pleasures of our flesh wreak such havoc?”
She leans in close to you and whispers, “Let me capture your soul on this canvas in oil and blood, and you will be beautiful forever.”
White tea, sugar cane, orange blossom, rockrose, lemon balm, white mint, and honey.Add to cart
Behind the diminutive stage, the puppet mistress stands, a pale and grinning Professor, the Lady of Chaos. Her hands are tangled in web-like strings; a swazzle peeks through her violet lips. Behind her, you see a wavering image, with all the vague haziness of a mirage: a leaping coyote, a flame-haired and scarred Norseman, a glittering golden spider, a laughing monkey, a leering satyr, a shadowy flutist, and an African youth dressed in black and red.
Jasmine sambac, dark musk, violet water, vanilla bean and mimosa.Add to cart
Lightning splits the sky, illuminating the skeletal skyline of the carnival rides: sugared incense, flickering blue musk, and night-blooming flowers.Add to cart
A colorless woman bursts from an elaborate gold and ruby tent and faints dead at your feet. Soft laughter emits from the dark entrance to the tent, and the scent of musk, black fruits and incense touches your senses. Looking up, you see that the sign hovering above the unconscious woman is adorned with images of the Major Arcana’s Tower and reads:
“Mme. Moriarty, Misfortune Teller.
No fate too grim, no future too bleak.”
A tiny woman with floor-length black dreadlocks walks out of the tent, stepping over the prone body. She is clothed in deep red wrappings, and is bedecked in golden ornaments bearing alchemical symbols and charms representing eternity, chance, and wisdom. She pauses, looks you over slowly, and then flicks a tarot card at your feet.
Red musk, vanilla bean, pomegranate, black currant, patchouli leaf and wild plum.Add to cart
Your eyes are drawn to a gilded miniature stage whose sign reads: “All Praises to the Lord of Misrule!” Upon the platform, a sneering wooden jester waltzes with a hollow-eyed and bleeding wooden maiden, while a wooden devil floats above them.
Labdanum, cedar, teak and red rose.Add to cart
An exquisite, enigmatic woman sidles up to you, bearing a tray of strange, dusty curios, chocolate creatures, serpentine taffy, and candied skulls. Her skin is dusky, her eyes are heavy-lidded and sensual, her hair is the fine, soft white of spun sugar, and her skin is softly scented with cocoa. She holds a shrunken head aloft, and beckons.
Bittersweet chocolate with a heavy cream undertone.Add to cart
A handsome, dark-skinned man weaves and dances his way through the crowd. Veves have been burned into the face of his old acoustic guitar, which he strums casually as he strolls though the crowd. A winged Capuchin monkey is balanced on his shoulder, holding out a rusty metal cup. The guitar player’s melancholy chords begin to mingle strangely with a cacophonous jangling sound. The discordant symphony grows and swells as he moves toward a cloaked and hooded figure; this spectre’s skeletal hands operate a dilapidated barrel organ that stands at a crossroads in the midway. As they come together, the music hits a nightmarish crescendo; your heart heaves with longings unfulfilled, your vision swims, and your head is filled with whispered incantations and gallows secrets. In that instant, you suddenly understand the profundity of deals made in Heaven and Hell, and the price of desire.
Almond milk, sarsaparilla, tobacco smoke, High John the Conqueror root, coconut hull, black patchouli and white pine bark.Add to cart
Ghostly, glowing, sweet and dark: black cherry, patchouli, cassis, cardamom and verbena.Add to cart
A flash of light and the smell of sulfur seize your attention. A vast black tent stands before you, subtly glowing with an unnatural, almost phosphorescent light. This tent has no pennants, no ornamentation, save for a carved ebony sign, lettered in silver:
Legerdemain, Medium, Conjurer
One thousand years of marvels.
Enter at your peril.”
Another flash blinds you, and from a swirl of smoke a rakish, devilishly handsome man appears, long black hair falling down halfway to his waist, elegant and sinister in an inky silk tuxedo and a voluminous cape. The shadow he casts against the tent, oddly, seems to be that of an enormous corvus, and his eyes radiate a deep azure light. Staring fixedly at you, he snaps his fingers, and two bolts of violet lightning strike the ground on either side of him, blinding you momentarily. As your eyes adjust, you see that two lovely, slender, waiflike women now stand upon the scarred ground beside him, dressed in tattered ballerina costumes the nebulous color of smoke. Turning to his right, he touches the woman’s lips and says, “Seachd seachd uair!” She opens her mouth, and a flock of diminutive bats fly forth from her throat. Turning to his left, he touches the other woman’s hair and repeats, “Seachd seachd uair!” What once was a gleaming mane of stark white hair is now a nest of writhing vipers. She opens her mouth, baring fangs, and spits forth a thin stream of venom. The Master swirls his cape, which suddenly seems to grow and twist like a living shadow, and in a final flash of red lightning and a deafening thunderclap, he and both his assistants vanish.
Earl Grey tea leaves, a white fougere, jasmine leaf, pearlescent white musk, and vanilla bean.Add to cart
From the corner of your eye, you see what seems to be a swirl of pale, translucent spirits. Ghostly in form, their faces are masks of pain and fury. Their insubstantial bodies churn and roil around a hissing, wailing clown. Her greasepaint is smeared with tears, and her fanged crimson mouth is turned down in a vicious scowl while blood drips from her lips. Her costume is torn and threadbare, and a steel-bright glint around her waist draws your eyes to an arsenal of razors, knives, and cleavers hanging from her belt. She swats futilely at the spirits as she shoves and scratches her way through the crowd.
Guava, orange peel, white pepper, spun sugar and apple blossom.Add to cart
The skies have darkened, and summer’s last bright green leaf has turned. Halloween is here at Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab.
The Halloween sets, including the Pickman Gallery, will be live until December 28th.
A day of remembrance and intercession. Without the prayers and sacrifices of their families and loved ones, the faithful departed may not be cleansed of their venal sins, and thereby cannot attain beatific vision. On November 2nd, prayers are sung and offerings are made to aid lost souls in transcending purgatory. An incense blend that invokes the higher qualities of mercy and compassion, mingled with the soft, sugared currant scent of offertory soul cakes.Add to cart
A joyous celebration of La Catarina, La Flaca, La Muerte… Glorious, Beautiful Death. In Mexico, death is not something to be feared or hated; She is embraced, loved, and adored. La Muerte is fêted, as the celebrant “…chases after it, mocks it, courts it, hugs it, sleeps with it; it is his favorite plaything and his most lasting love.” This is a Mexican paean to La Huesuda: dry, crackling leaves, the incense smoke of altars honoring Death and the Dead, funeral bouquets, the candies, chocolates, foods and tobacco of the ofrenda, amaranth, sweet cactus blossom and desert cereus.Add to cart
A barrel of beer, a pyramid of cakes, and three sticks of incense.Add to cart
With cinnamon, nutmeg, browned butter, and cream cheese icing.Add to cart
Comme les anges à l'oeil fauve,
Je reviendrai dans ton alcôve
Et vers toi glisserai sans bruit
Avec les ombres de la nuit;
Et je te donnerai, ma brune,
Des baisers froids comme la lune
Et des caresses de serpent
Autour d'une fosse rampant.
Quand viendra le matin livide,
Tu trouveras ma place vide,
OÃ¹ jusqu'au soir il fera froid.
Comme d'autres par la tendresse,
Sur ta vie et sur ta jeunesse,
Moi, je veux régner par l'effroi.
– – –
Like angels with wild beast's eyes
I shall return to your bedroom
And silently glide toward you
With the shadows of the night;
And, dark beauty, I shall give you
Kisses cold as the moon
And the caresses of a snake
That crawls around a grave.
When the livid morning comes,
You'll find my place empty,
And it will be cold there till night.
I wish to hold sway over
Your life and youth by fear,
As others do by tenderness.
— Charles Baudelaire, translation by William Aggeler.
A shroud of gardenia, narcissus, and sandalwood with ambrette seed, white cognac, muguet, davana, and white musk.Add to cart
By what a subtle alchemy the green leaves are transmuted into gold, as if molten by the fiery blaze of the hot sun! A magic covering spreads over the whole forest, and brightens into more gorgeous hues. The tree-tops seem bathed with the gold and crimson of an Italian sunset. Here and there a shade of green, here and there a tinge of purple, and a stain of scarlet so deep and rich, that the most cunning artifice of man is pale beside it. A thousand delicate shades melt into each other. They blend fantastically into one deep mass. They spread over the forest like a tapestry woven with a thousand hues.
Magnificent Autumn! He comes not like a pilgrim, clad in russet weeds. He comes not like a hermit, clad in gray. But he comes like a warrior, with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor.
The scene changes.
It is the Indian summer. The rising sun blazes through the misty air like a conflagration. A yellowish, smoky haze fills the atmosphere; and
–A filmy mist,
Lies like a silver lining on the sky.
The wind is soft and low. It wafts to us the odor of forest leaves, that hang wilted on the dripping branches, or drop into the stream. Their gorgeous tints are gone, as if the autumnal rains had washed them out. Orange, yellow, and scarlet, all are changed to one melancholy russet hue. The birds, too, have taken wing, and have left their roofless dwellings. Not the whistle of a robin, not the twitter of an eavesdropping swallow, not the carol of one sweet, familiar voice! All gone. Only the dismal cawing of a crow, as he sits and curses, that the harvest is over, – or the chit-chat of an idle squirrel, – the noisy denizen of a hollow tree, – the mendicant friar of a large parish, – the absolute monarch of a dozen acorns!
The wind sweeps through the forest with a sound like the blast of a trumpet. The dry leaves whirl in eddies through the air. A fret-work of hoar-frost covers the plain. The stagnant water in the pools and ditches is frozen into fantastic figures. Nature ceases from her labors, and prepares for the great change. In the low-hanging clouds, the sharp air, like a busy shuttle, weaves her shroud of snow. There is a melancholy and continual roar in the tops of the tall pines, like the roar of a cataract. It is the funeral anthem of the dying year.
A scent that wanders through the Ages of Autumn, from the last green leaf to the first breath of winter.Add to cart
Ay, thou art welcome, heaven’s delicious breath!
When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,
And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief
And the year smiles as it draws near its death.
Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay
In the gay woods and in the golden air,
Like to a good old age released from care,
Journeying, in long serenity, away.
In such a bright, late quiet, would that I
Might wear out life like thee, ‘mid bowers and brooks
And dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,
And music of kind voices ever nigh;
And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass.
Dry, cold autumn wind. A rustle of red leaves, a touch of smoke and sap in the air.Add to cart
Because this is all that I’ve wanted out of life for months.Add to cart
A peculiar point of contention: you either love it or hate it, and however you feel, it’s passionate.Add to cart
Truly the scent of autumn itself — damp woods, fir needle, and black patchouli with the gentlest touches of warm pumpkin, clove, nutmeg, allspice, sweet red apple and mullein.Add to cart
Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.
– Albert Camus
An accolade: drifting leaves tinted in the bold reds of pomegranate and currant, the golds of amber and honey, russet myrrh, a touch of cypress-green, and crisp patchouli-brown.Add to cart
Ils me disent, tes yeux, clairs comme le cristal:
“Pour toi, bizarre amant, quel est donc mon mérite?”
– Sois charmante et tais-toi! Mon coeur, que tout irrite,
Excepté la candeur de l’antique animal,
Ne veut pas te montrer son secret infernal,
Berceuse dont la main aux longs sommeils m’invite,
Ni sa noire légende avec la flamme écrite.
Je hais la passion et l’esprit me fait mal!
Aimons-nous doucement. L’Amour dans sa guérite,
Ténébreux, embusqué, bande son arc fatal.
Je connais les engins de son vieil arsenal:
Crime, horreur et folie! – Ô pâle marguerite!
Comme moi n’es-tu pas un soleil automnal,
Ô ma si blanche, ô ma si froide Marguerite?
They say to me, your eyes, clear as crystal:
“For you, bizarre lover, what is my merit then?”
– Be charming and be still! My heart, which all things irk,
Except the candor of the animals of old,
Does not wish to reveal its black secret to you,
Whose lulling hands invite me to long sleep,
Nor its somber legend written with flame.
I hate passion; intelligence makes me suffer!
Let us love each other sweetly. Tenebrous Love,
Ambushed in his shelter, stretches his fatal bow.
I know all the weapons of his old arsenal:
Crime, horror, and madness! – pale marguerite!
Are you not, like me, an autumnal sun,
O my Marguerite, so white and so cold?
– Charles Baudelaire, translated by William Aggeler
Tenebrous Love: a shivering white musk with vanilla-infused white cocoa, amber incense, and dead, dry leaves.Add to cart
Vibrant with the joy and sweetness of life in death! A blend of five sugars, lightly dusted with candied fruits.Add to cart
There came a ghost to Margret’s door,
With many a grievous groan,
And ay he tirled at the pin,
But answer made she none.
‘Is that my father Philip,
Or is’t my brother John?
Or is’t my true-love, Willy,
From Scotland new come home?’
‘’Tis not thy father Philip,
Nor yet thy brother John;
But ’tis thy true-love, Willy,
From Scotland new come home.
‘O sweet Margret, O dear Margret,
I pray thee speak to me;
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.’
‘Thy faith and troth thou’s never get,
Nor yet will I thee lend,
Till that thou come within my bower,
And kiss my cheek and chin.’
‘If I shoud come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man;
And shoud I kiss thy rosy lips,
Thy days will not be lang.
‘O sweet Margret, O dear Margret,
I pray thee speak to me;
Give me my faith and troth, Margret,
As I gave it to thee.’
‘Thy faith and troth thou’s never get,
Nor yet will I thee lend,
Till you take me to yon kirk,
And wed me with a ring.’
‘My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard,
Afar beyond the sea,
And it is but my spirit, Margret,
That’s now speaking to thee.’
She stretchd out her lilly-white hand,
And, for to do her best,
‘Hae, there’s your faith and troth, Willy,
God send your soul good rest.’
Now she has kilted her robes of green
A piece below her knee,
And a’ the live-lang winter night
The dead corp followed she.
‘Is there any room at your head, Willy?
Or any room at your feet?
Or any room at your side, Willy,
Wherein that I may creep?’
‘There’s no room at my head, Margret,
There’s no room at my feet;
There’s no room at my side, Margret,
My coffin’s made so meet.’
Then up and crew the red, red cock,
And up then crew the gray:
‘Tis time, tis time, my dear Margret,
That you were going away.’
No more the ghost to Margret said,
But, with a grievous groan,
Evanishd in a cloud of mist,
And left her all alone.
‘O stay, my only true-love, stay,’
The constant Margret cry’d;
Wan grew her cheeks, she closd her een,
Stretchd her soft limbs, and dy’d.
Is there any room at your head, Willy? Or any room at your feet? Or any room at your side, Willy, wherein that I may creep? A scent of unendurable grief and longing: pale orris root and honeyed white lily chilled by wild carrot and cognac, pulled into a winding sheet of white jasmine, tobacco flower, tuberose, and patchouli.Add to cart
“The wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain;
I never had but one true-love,
In cold grave she was lain.”
“I’ll do as much for my true-love
As any young man may;
I’ll sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day.”
The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak:
“Oh who sits weeping on my grave,
And will not let me sleep?”
“’T is I, my love, sits on your grave,
And will not let you sleep;
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
And that is all I seek.”
“You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
But my breath smells earthy strong;
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long.
“’Tis down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk,
The finest flower that e’re was seen
Is withered to a stalk.
“The stalk is withered dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay;
So make yourself content, my love,
Till God calls you away.”
One kiss of clay-cold lips: frozen white roses, frankincense, white gardenia, white sandalwood, and vanilla orchid.Add to cart
“I am come-I am come! once again from the tomb,
In return for the ring which you gave;
That I am thine, and that thou art mine,
This nuptial pledge receive.”
He lay like a corse ‘neath the Demon’s force,
And she wrapp’d him in a shroud;
And she fixed her teeth his heart beneath,
And she drank of the warm life-blood!
And ever and anon murmur’d the lips of stone,
“Soft and warm is this couch of thine,
Thou’lt to-morrow be laid on a colder bed-
Albert! that bed will be mine!”
– Henry Thomas Liddell
Icy skin touched by a perfume of violet leaf, white tea, olibanum, elemi, myrrh, wormwood, crypt dust, and saffron with a dribble of blood red musk.Add to cart
O brothers mine, take care! Take care!
The great white witch rides out to-night.
Trust not your prowess nor your strength,
Your only safety lies in flight;
For in her glance there is a snare,
And in her smile there is a blight.
The great white witch you have not seen?
Then, younger brothers mine, forsooth,
Like nursery children you have looked
For ancient hag and snaggle-tooth;
But no, not so; the witch appears
In all the glowing charms of youth.
Her lips are like carnations, red,
Her face like new-born lilies, fair,
Her eyes like ocean waters, blue,
She moves with subtle grace and air,
And all about her head there floats
The golden glory of her hair.
But though she always thus appears
In form of youth and mood of mirth,
Unnumbered centuries are hers,
The infant planets saw her birth;
The child of throbbing Life is she,
Twin sister to the greedy earth.
And back behind those smiling lips,
And down within those laughing eyes,
And underneath the soft caress
Of hand and voice and purring sighs,
The shadow of the panther lurks,
The spirit of the vampire lies.
For I have seen the great white witch,
And she has led me to her lair,
And I have kissed her red, red lips
And cruel face so white and fair;
Around me she has twined her arms,
And bound me with her yellow hair.
I felt those red lips burn and sear
My body like a living coal;
Obeyed the power of those eyes
As the needle trembles to the pole;
And did not care although I felt
The strength go ebbing from my soul.
Oh! she has seen your strong young limbs,
And heard your laughter loud and gay,
And in your voices she has caught
The echo of a far-off day,
When man was closer to the earth;
And she has marked you for her prey.
She feels the old Antaean strength
In you, the great dynamic beat
Of primal passions, and she sees
In you the last besieged retreat
Of love relentless, lusty, fierce,
Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet.
O, brothers mine, take care! Take care!
The great white witch rides out to-night.
O, younger brothers mine, beware!
Look not upon her beauty bright;
For in her glance there is a snare,
And in her smile there is a blight.
Love pain-ecstatic, cruel-sweet: gold-flecked honey amber pulsating with red musk, patchouli coeur, bourbon vanilla, inky vetiver, pomegranate rind, myrrh, blackened violet leaf, and blood red rose petals.Add to cart
A pastime thought to have its roots in fertility and mate-hunting divination. Presented, for your pleasure, a selection of apples to bob for.
Apple with hay absolute, oats, honey, cream vanilla, and goat’s milk accord.Add to cart
Green apple with pink pepper, Himalayan cedar, juniper berries, and lemon rind.Add to cart
Appalachian black apple with sweet tobacco and patchouli, orange blossom, vanilla champaca, lavender, and white honey.Add to cart
Red apple with blackcurrant bud, black clove, and vanilla bourbon.Add to cart
Apple with white coconut, fig, and tiare.Add to cart
Black Phoenix’s cheeky interpretation of the iconic scents of the season. No actual single notes – or clowns – were harmed during the creation of these blends.
Wig powder, amber-perfumed leather gloves, and rose petals with a sliver of oak bark and cauldron smoke.
Jan de Bisschop
Blackened tonka, patchouli, dragon’s blood resin, and scorched oak.
Honey, cream and white rose petals buffeted by toadstools, creeping moss, bog cypress, and myrrh.
Bourbon vanilla, sweet red patchouli, oudh, goat’s milk accord, and white honey.
Honey, rose petals, and carnations – a drop of blood – red clover, cubeb berries, and vanilla cream.
John William Waterhouse
Vanilla-infused frankincense and clary sage with 7-year aged patchouli, jasmine sambac, honey myrtle, and oudh.
Jean van der Velde II
An evocation incense of frankincense, styrax, lavender buds, mastic, and white sandalwood mingled with moonflower, violet absolute, tuberose, and dark musk.
Mandrake root, apple blossom, dusty brown sandalwood, coconut milk, woodmusk, and soft leather.
Pumpkin cream, honey, vanilla sugar, and smoked vanilla bean.
White sandalwood, opoponax, shriveled black plum, and vetiver.
Frans Francken II
Burgundy and champaca resin with immortelle, leather accord, wine-soaked red fruits, rose geranium petals, red patchouli, guttering candles, and smoke.
Attributed to Luis Paret y Alcaza
Black lily and black pepper with narcissus, white musk, and white sandalwood.
Frans Francken II
Belladonna accord, sprigs of rue, crushed hyssop, white sage, beeswax, mandrake leaf, bay rum, black honey, hemp, and myrrh.
White musk, tobacco flower, white tea, Tunisian neroli, and blonde leather.
Red musk and cacao with clove, caramelized tobacco, aged patchouli, red currant, black leather, and vanilla-infused amber.
Oman frankincense, black clove, and tobacco tar.
Michał Elwiro Andriolli
Brown leather, bay leaf, tobacco leaf, lavender, and oudh.
A debonair lavender fougere cloaked in smoky red musk, red mandarin, and oakmoss.
Golden amber, carnation, blackcurrant, aged black patchouli, red musk, and vetiver.
White leather and cypress-tinged white musk with cardamom, smouldering incense, Ceylon cinnamon and white sandalwood.
Truly, to me you are the Gladdener of All Hearts.
Happy birthday, kiddo.
On the beach at night alone,
As the old mother sways her to and fro, singing her husky song,
As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes, and of the future.
A vast similitude interlocks all,
All spheres, grown, ungrown, small, large, suns, moons, planets
All distances of place however wide,
All distances of time, all inanimate forms,
All souls, all living bodies, though they be ever so different, or in different worlds,
All gaseous, watery, vegetable, mineral processes, the fishes, the brutes,
All nations, colors, barbarisms, civilizations, languages,
All identities that have existed, or may exist, on this globe, or any globe,
All lives and deaths, all of the past, present, future,
This vast similitude spans them, and always has spann’d,
And shall forever span them and compactly hold and enclose them.
Eternally lapping ocean waves at sunset, touched by the pale pinkish amber of the setting sun.Add to cart
Lilith loves her kung fu classes. She loves her sifu, she loves the exercises, she loves practicing her forms. (She’s alright with the meditation aspect, but let’s be real: she’s a kid, and would rather be doing somersaults.) This year, she attained her blue belt, and this scent was created to commemorate her achievement. Baby, I am so proud of you. You worked so hard, and it paid off. I am always, always proud of you.
This Battle Fairy smells like blue cotton candy, strawberries, a plop of vanilla icing and a bit of crushed peppermint candy.Add to cart
This year, Lilith started cultivating a love of Shakespeare, especially Hamlet. Man, this kid loves that play. I assumed, when we started talking about Shakespeare’s works, that she’d love the comedies, particularly Midsummer Night’s Dream and all its attendant fairies. Nope; it’s all about the mopey Prince of Denmark and his teen angst.
When she started at her Shakespeare summer camp this year, one of her teachers asked which characters she liked best. She replied, “Horatio.”
“Horatio? But he doesn’t have many lines, does he? Why do you like him so much?”
“He’s Hamlet’s best friend, he’s always there for Hamlet, and he’s the only one that doesn’t die.”
Wise words, kiddo!
This is a photo that I took of her watching Kenneth Branagh’s Hamlet with her trusty sidekick, Wednesday. The dog, for her part, is a huge fan of the Two Gentlemen of Verona.
A little kid’s interpretation of Hamlet’s BFF. A scent of kindness and devotion, friendship and loyalty: soft brown leather and brushed suede with bourbon vanilla, toasted almond, tonka bean, and amber.Add to cart
While we were at Kensal Green in March, Lilith began knocking on all the crypts to wake the ghosts. In her estimation, they were likely bored and lonely, and a party would do them some good. Lil is always very concerned about everyone’s happiness, both the living and the dead.
A spectral shindig: damp mosses, fallen leaves, and soft woods swirled with an ethereal mist of white sandalwood, lilac, orris root, and moonflower.Add to cart
“Give me thy breath, my sister,” exclaimed Beatrice; “for I am faint with common air! And give me this flower of thine, which I separate with gentlest fingers from the stem, and place it close beside my heart.”
Lilith absolutely adores her carnivorous plants. She is doting and gentle… decidedly loving… and tends them with all of her precise, attentive Virgo care. She has a small pot of scarlet pink pitcher plants that are all her own, and two bogs that she shares with mom and dad.
Rosy snap-traps, syrupy mucilage, and pink, ballooning bladders: a scent like honey cotton candy, with hints of mint, sugar crystals, and a hint of crisp, bog-moist greenery.Add to cart
“Lady Macbeth should have Macbeth and the king just play rock paper scissors to see who gets to be king. And then whoever wins has to play against her and if she wins, she gets to be king.”
– Lilith coming up with solutions as we begin reading the Scottish Play.
A Lilith’ized take on our Lady Macbeth scent, wherein ambition, covetousness, and manipulation are transformed into fairmindedness, equity, and a willingness to sometimes leave things to chance: sugared red currant and honey cake.Add to cart
When our tarantula, Pinky, died, Lilith buried her. She cradled Pinky’s little body and placed her in a special box. She dug the grave with her own hands. She composed a memorial for Pinky, and spoke at her funeral. She laid a heart-shaped stone that she had found at the beach on her grave, and many months later, she still does what she can to tend Pinky’s grave.
She has a reverence and respect for both life and death that is as beautiful to me as it is uncanny. Just recently, Lilith asked Ted and I to compose eulogies for our Soccer Mom Car, which was recently totaled, so we could share our memories of the car and let the car know how much she meant to us, thanking our poor, unfortunate SUV for keeping us safe for so many years.
I love and treasure many things about my daughter, but to me, her big heart is her most beautiful aspect. She seems to love everyone and everything, she forgives all, and she truly values other people’s feelings. Lilith, you are a good person. You are a better person than I, I suspect, and it is an honor to be your mother.
A cotton candy-suffused blend of Snake Oil and Dorian, touched by earthy green moss and raiz de moras, hope-filled vanilla bean, sweet honey, and joyous carnation. The scent has roots in her bloodline and has been touched by the world, but is entirely her own. She is entirely her own.Add to cart
O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention,
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,
Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,
Leash’d in like hounds, should famine, sword and fire
Crouch for employment. But pardon, and gentles all,
The flat unraised spirits that have dared
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth
So great an object: can this cockpit hold
The vasty fields of France? or may we cram
Within this wooden O the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt?
O, pardon! since a crooked figure may
Attest in little place a million;
And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,
On your imaginary forces work.
Suppose within the girdle of these walls
Are now confined two mighty monarchies,
Whose high upreared and abutting fronts
The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder:
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts;
Into a thousand parts divide on man,
And make imaginary puissance;
Think when we talk of horses, that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs i’ the receiving earth;
For ’tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry them here and there; jumping o’er times,
Turning the accomplishment of many years
Into an hour-glass: for the which supply,
Admit me Chorus to this history;
Who prologue-like your humble patience pray,
Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.
Lilith performed this prologue with her Shakespeare camp this summer. It gave me chills every time I heard her practice her lines, and forevermore she will be my Muse of Fire.
The image accompanying this scent is from the morning of her performance. Lilith, you inspire me every day. Your love of Shakespeare has reinvigorated my own, and it means the world to me that we have this to share with one another.
My little Muse of Fire: an explosion of rainbow-hued flower petals dusted in sugar.
[Seriously… you have no idea how to made me feel to hear Lilith recite lines from Henry V. I still choke up every time I think on it too long, and when this prologue comes to mind, I hear it in her voice.]Add to cart
Look, I just wanted to make a scent for Lilith and this baby goat. Because it makes me happy and BECAUSE LOOK AT IT. LOOK AT THAT BABY GOAT.
Fuzzy baby goat musk, goat’s milk accord, wild rice flower, and a little bit of farmer’s market honey.Add to cart
While in London this year, Lilith learned how to blow bubbles with her bubblegum. It may not sound like a big deal, but I really do think that blowing bubbles is one of childhood’s great milestones. It’s a momentous occasion to a 6-year old, and is certainly deserving of commemoration!
This is the scent of the bubbles that she popped all over the city: strawberry bubblegum against a backdrop of chilly wind.Add to cart
Last year, Lilith helped us set up one of the maze rooms for her school’s Halloween party. Not only did she help prep prop guts, but during the event, she spent some time assisting us by hiding in front of a glass window and throwing eyeballs, dismembered rubber fingers, and entrails at passers-by.
I love my kid.
Sticky white glops of marshmallow and clotted cream with ropes of sinewy strawberry licorice whips and oozing pink jelly.Add to cart
This is the scent of the Royal Observatory at Greenwich on a cold, stormy day in March: ancient oaks and deep green mosses dampened by rain and sea salt.Add to cart
We’ve had myriad political figures throughout US history that have possessed acid tongues, but few in the modern era have provided such a constant stream of colorfully vitriolic superlatives as Antonin Scalia.
He is the federal court’s beat poet of indignation and right-wing rage.
For your pleasure, we present a line dedicated to SCOTUS’ reigning Sick Burn Champion, the cranky, flamboyant, inimitable Justice Antonin Gregory Scalia. Proceeds from every single bottle will be donated to the Southern Poverty Law Center, the Trevor Project, and the National Center for Transgender Equality.
Obergefell vs Hodges
Who ever thought that intimacy and spirituality [whatever that means] were freedoms? And if intimacy is, one would think Freedom of Intimacy is abridged rather than expanded by marriage. Ask the nearest hippie.
An olfactory guide, created to assist you in locating nearby hippies: patchouli, hemp, smoky vanilla bean, and cannabis accord.
(No, there is no actual weed in this perfume, silly.)Add to cart
King vs Burwell
The Court’s next bit of interpretive jiggery-pokery involves other parts of the Act that purportedly presuppose the availability of tax credits on both federal and state Exchanges. Ante, at 13–14.
I dunno. “Jiggery Pokery” just felt like it needed a whimsical scent attached to it, so here’s some pink pepper cotton candy with a sliver of orange peel and a hint of vanilla cream.Add to cart
Arizona vs United States
We are not talking here about a federal law prohibiting the States from regulating bubble-gum advertising, or even the construction of nuclear plants. We are talking about a federal law going to the core of state sovereignty: the power to exclude.
The Court opinion’s looming specter of inutterable horror—“[i]f §3 of the Arizona statute were valid, every State could give itself independent authority to prosecute federal registration violations”—seems to me not so horrible and even less looming.
If securing its territory in this fashion is not within the power of Arizona, we should cease referring to it as a sovereign State.
Wherein Scalia channels Lovecraft: raw frankincense and tobacco absolute with Russian leather, blackened champaca, bitter clove, red patchouli, bourbon vanilla and petitgrain.Add to cart
Obergefell vs Hodges
Buried beneath the mummeries and straining-to-be-memorable passages of the opinion is a candid and startling assertion: No matter what it was the People ratified, the Fourteenth Amendment protects those rights that the Judiciary, in its ‘reasoned judgment,’ thinks the Fourteenth Amendment ought to protect.
Rosemary is for remembrance: rosemary water with lavender, blackberry, Italian bergamot, and white musk.Add to cart
Obergefell vs Hodges
If, even as the price to be paid for a fifth vote, I ever joined an opinion for the Court that began: ‘The Constitution promises liberty to all within its reach, a liberty that includes certain specific rights that allow persons, within a lawful realm, to define and express their identity,’ I would hide my head in a bag. The Supreme Court of the United States has descended from the disciplined legal reasoning of John Marshall and Joseph Story to the mystical aphorisms of the fortune cookie.
Almond fortune cookies and a bit of roadside palm reader-inspired incense.Add to cart
King vs Burwell
The Court claims that the Act must equate federal and state establishment of Exchanges when it defines a qualified individual as someone who (among other things) lives in the “State that established the Exchange,” 42 U. S. C. §18032(f )(1)(A). Otherwise, the Court says, there would be no qualified individuals on federal Exchanges, contradicting (for example) the provision requiring every Exchange to takethe “ ‘interests of qualified individuals’ ” into accountwhen selecting health plans. Ante, at 11 (quoting §18031(e)(1)(b)). Pure applesauce.
Our applesauce is decidedly impure: mashed apples with sugar and honey, slivered with tobacco tar and black tea.Add to cart
September 27th brings us a Supermoon Blood Moon Full Lunar Eclipse in Aries. This is the scent of domination and belligerence, passivity and compliance – revenge clashing against reconciliation – and the internal struggle to balance it all. Soul-rending hatred gnawing at the impulse of compassion, the struggle for safety at all costs, and the blood and tears that cleanse it all in the end.
May the Gods show mercy to any who stand in the way.
Impenetrable, blood-spattered, Martial red musk, fiery pomegranate and black pepper, the splintered woods of uncountable wooden arrow shafts and shields, sharp frankincense and morose myrrh, all smothering the gentler impulses of the moon.
Only 300 bottles crafted. $27 per little bottle of rage.Out of Stock
The Marsh of Corruption: murky patchouli and dank oakmoss drowning in a mire of leathery bourbon vanilla, bitter clove, bog cypress, cumin, and vetiver.Add to cart