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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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  Slumber Ghoul Perfume Oil

  The air in the room chilled, then soured. The children exchanged a glance, as if to say: It’s here.

  
  Sleepy lavender bud, the memory of warm milk, a splinter of bone dust, and a clawful of upturned grave loam.

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  A Melancholy of Goths Perfume Oil

  Comparing agonies, their amused voices rose and fell like a fluttering veil.

  
  Clove smoke, champaca incense, plum velvet, and hairspray.

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  Man With a Haunted House for a Head Perfume Oil

  Peering out through the sagging shutters, he waited for guests to arrive.

  
  Creaking oak floorboards coated in dust. A trembling sandalwood spiderweb writhes with long-buried memories.

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