Related products

• 

  The Treat Keeper Perfume Oil

  The smile widened and the long neck bowed, offering.

  Dried apples, sour apple mash, and molasses.

  Add to cart
• 

  Snakes in the Berry Sonker Perfume Oil

  Snake Oil slithering into a pan of baked blueberries, blackberries, and raspberries in a warm pastry crust, topped with vanilla ice cream and molasses.

  Add to cart
• 

  Wilde Perfume Oil

  To stab my youth with desperate knives, to wear
  This paltry age’s gaudy livery,
  To let each base hand filch my treasury,
  To mesh my soul within a woman’s hair,
  And be mere Fortune’s lackeyed groom, — I swear
  I love it not! these things are less to me
  Than the thin foam that frets upon the sea,
  Less than the thistle-down of summer air
  Which hath no seed: better to stand aloof
  Far from these slanderous fools who mock my life
  Knowing me not, better the lowliest roof
  Fit for the meanest hind to sojourn in,
  Than to go back to that hoarse cave of strife
  Where my white soul first kissed the mouth of sin.
  
  A sophisticated traditional gentleman’s cologne, with just the slightest taint of patchouli’s passion, tonka bean’s decadence, the philanthropy of bergamot, moss’ cynicism, the sharp wit of lavender, and the hopeless romantic longing of jasmine and thyme.

  Select Options This product has multiple variants. The options may be chosen on the product page
• 

  Dance of Death Perfume Oil

  Carrying bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves,
  Proud of her height as when she lived, she moves
  With all the careless and high-stepping grace,
  And the extravagant courtesan’s thin face.

  Was slimmer waist e’er in a ball-room wooed?
  Her floating robe, in royal amplitude,
  Falls in deep folds around a dry foot, shod
  With a bright flower-like shoe that gems the sod.

  The swarms that hum about her collar-bones
  As the lascivious streams caress the stones,
  Conceal from every scornful jest that flies,
  Her gloomy beauty; and her fathomless eyes

  Are made of shade and void; with flowery sprays
  Her skull is wreathed artistically, and sways,
  Feeble and weak, on her frail vertebrae.
  O charm of nothing decked in folly! they

  Who laugh and name you a Caricature,
  They see not, they whom flesh and blood allure,
  The nameless grace of every bleached, bare bone,
  That is most dear to me, tall skeleton!

  Come you to trouble with your potent sneer
  The feast of Life! or are you driven here,
  To Pleasure’s Sabbath, by dead lusts that stir
  And goad your moving corpse on with a spur?

  Or do you hope, when sing the violins,
  And the pale candle-flame lights up our sins,
  To drive some mocking nightmare far apart,
  And cool the flame hell lighted in your heart?

  Fathomless well of fault and foolishness!
  Eternal alembic of antique distress!
  Still o’er the curved, white trellis of your sides
  The sateless, wandering serpent curls and glides.

  And truth to tell, I fear lest you should find,
  Among us here, no lover to your mind;
  Which of these hearts beat for the smile you gave?
  The charms of horror please none but the brave.

  Your eyes’ black gulf, where awful broodings stir,
  Brings giddiness; the prudent reveller
  Sees, while a horror grips him from beneath,
  The eternal smile of thirty-two white teeth.

  For he who has not folded in his arms
  A skeleton, nor fed on graveyard charms,
  Recks not of furbelow, or paint, or scent,
  When Horror comes the way that Beauty went.

  O irresistible, with fleshless face,
  Say to these dancers in their dazzled race:
  “Proud lovers with the paint above your bones,
  Ye shall taste death, musk scented skeletons!

  Withered Antinoüs, dandies with plump faces,
  Ye varnished cadavers, and grey Lovelaces,
  Ye go to lands unknown and void of breath,
  Drawn by the rumour of the Dance of Death.

  From Seine’s cold quays to Ganges’ burning stream,
  The mortal troupes dance onward in a dream;
  They do not see, within the opened sky,
  The Angel’s sinister trumpet raised on high.

  In every clime and under every sun,
  Death laughs at ye, mad mortals, as ye run;
  And oft perfumes herself with myrrh, like ye
  And mingles with your madness, irony!

  A gloriously elegant representation of Lady Death. Dry, bone-white orris, black musk, serpentine patchouli and our murkiest myrrh.

  Select Options This product has multiple variants. The options may be chosen on the product page