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  The Hohenzollern Crypt Perfume Oil

  Beneath the Berlin Cathedral lies the Hohenzollern family crypt. It is the final resting place of many of those who shaped the history of Berlin, and is one of the most important dynastic burial sites in Europe, with roots reaching back through centuries.

  The memory of an 18th-century perfume from the royal houses of the Holy Roman Empire drifting through marble-white walls: white bergamot, clementine, lime peel, grapefruit, blood orange, neroli, lavender, thyme, and tobacco.

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  Jezebel Perfume Oil

  Biblical witch, priestess of Astarte, and general troublemaker. A true role model for today’s upwardly mobile Modern Woman. A gloriously decadent blend of honey, roses, orange blossom and sandalwood.

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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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  I Want Nothing Perfume Oil

  Nothing will come of nothing: an ode to an American tyrant who makes King Lear look like a man that really has his shit together.

  An unraveling. A scent in all caps – bold, hasty, furious, and frightened: the hiss of rage-red splinters of bile ejaculating from a haze of blood orange and a bellowing scrawl of ink-black musk on a sweat-splattered notepad.

  Proceeds from the sale of this scent benefit the American Civil Liberties Union.

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