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  Darkness Perfume Oil

  The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
  The moon, their mistress, had expir’d before;
  The winds were wither’d in the stagnant air,
  And the clouds perish’d; Darkness had no need
  Of aid from them — She was the Universe.

  Bottled gloom; the essence of oblivion. Blackest opium and narcissus deepened by myrrh.

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  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.

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  Titus Andronicus Perfume Oil

  Dark musk and black amber with frankincense, red sandalwood, neroli and bergamot.

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  Doc Constantine Perfume Oil

  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.

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