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  Tavern of Hell Perfume Oil

  Sometimes I would venture from my sepulchre to the jazz of night Paris, where having gathered the colours, I would think them over in front of the fire. I could be seen walking through a funeral corridor of my house and descending down a black spiral of steep stairs; rushing underground to Montmartre, all impatience to see the fiery rubies of the Moulin Rouge cross. I wondered thereabouts, then bought a ticket to watch frenzied delirium of feathers, vulgar painted lips and eyelashes of black and blue.

  Naked feet, and thighs, and arms, and breasts were being flung on me from bloody-red foam of translucent clothes. The tuxedoed goatees and crooked noses in white vests and toppers would line the hall, with their hands posed on canes. Then I found myself in a pub, where the liqueurs were served on a coffin (not a table) by the nickering devil: “Drink it, you wretched!” Having drunk, I returned under the black sky split by the flaming vanes, which the radiant needles of my eyelashes cross-hatched. In front of my nose a stream of bowler hats and black veils was still pulsing, foamy with bluish green and warm orange of feathers worn by the night beauties: to me they were all one, as I had to narrow my eyes for insupportable radiance of electric lamps, whose hectic fires would be dancing beneath my nervous eyelids for many a night to come.

  White gardenia, ambergris bouquet, lavender fougere, orange blossom, melissa, tobacco flower, coriander, ebony wood, ylang ylang, absinthe and aged whiskey.

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  Luna Azul Perfume Oil

  Ted’s interpretation.

   

  The ephemeral romance, the fleeting affair: frankincense and blackcurrant, caramelized black amber, and motia attar.

  Out of Stock
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  Blue Cotton Candy Moon Perfume Oil

  Lilith may be a teenager now, but her love of sweet scents has not dimmed at all.

   

  Blue cotton candy, crystalline white flowers, and moonlit white musk.

  Out of Stock
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  Oak Moon 2023 Perfume Oil

  The century oak, rugged and gaunt,
  Holds high to-day, as he was wont
  A hundred years ago, his head,
  Hoary with snows that have vanished,
  Defiant and grim to the wind’s wild taunt.
  The hooting owl finds here a haunt,
  And feathered choristers now chaunt
  As when the century’s dawn made red
  The century oak.

   

  No season’s coil his heart can daunt;
  Processive years their changes vaunt,
  But, constant till the line have fled
  And mouldered in oblivion’s bed,
  He holds his own, rugged and gaunt, –
  The century oak.
  – Harvey Carson Grumbine

   

  Oak bark, tree sap, wild acorns, and a touch of honey.

   

  Art by Drew Rausch!

  Out of Stock