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  Les Bijoux Perfume Oil

  My well-beloved was stripped. Knowing my whim,
  She wore her tinkling gems, but naught besides:
  And showed such pride as, while her luck betides,
  A sultan’s favored slave may show to him.

  When it lets off its lively, crackling sound,
  This blazing blend of metal crossed with stone
  Gives me an ecstasy I’ve only known
  Where league of sound and lustre can be found.

  She let herself be loved: then, drowsy-eyed,
  Smiled down from her high couch in languid ease.
  My love was deep and gentle as the seas
  And rose to her as to a cliff the tide.

  My own approval of each dreamy pose,
  Like a tamed tiger, cunningly she sighted:
  And candour, with lubricity united,
  Gave piquancy to every one she chose.

  Her limbs and hips, burnished with changing lustres
  Before my eyes, clairvoyant and serene,
  Swanned themselves, undulating in their sheen;
  Her breasts and belly, of my vine the clusters,

  Like evil angels rose, my fancy twitting,
  To kill the peace which over me she’d thrown,
  And to disturb her from the crystal throne
  Where, calm and solitary, she was sitting.

  So swerved her pelvis that, in one design,
  Antiope’s white rump it seemed to graft
  To a boy’s torso, merging fore and aft.
  The talc on her brown tan seemed half-divine.

  The lamp resigned its dying flame. Within,
  The hearth alone lit up the darkened air,
  And every time it sighed a crimson flare
  It drowned in blood that amber-coloured skin.

  Skin musk and honey, blood-red rose, orange blossom, white peach, red apple, frankincense and myrrh.

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  Paramatman Perfume Oil

  Like two birds of golden plumage, inseparable companions, the individual self and the immortal Self are perched on the branches of the selfsame tree. The former tastes of the sweet and bitter fruits of the tree; the latter, tasting of neither, calmly observes.

  Orange blossom, East Indian sandalwood, and champaca.

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  Zarita, The Doll Girl Perfume Oil

  A tiny woman stands in the center of the stage, the perfect woman in miniature, her copper hair bouncing in elegant curls. She is surrounded on all sides by a necropolis of maimed, mutilated stuffed animals, decapitated fashion dolls, and eviscerated wooden figures. It is a strangely ghastly tableau: the disemboweled toys ooze fiberfill, batting, and sawdust from their gaping wounds. In one dainty hand she clutches a shard of glass, and in the other she nimbly twirls a razor blade. Her face is twisted in a grimace of mad ferocity, and she hisses as she brandishes her makeshift weapons at you. “Play with me?” she growls.

  Soft, yet sociopathic: white carnation, iris, orange blossom, poisonous pale white berries, and sugared cream.

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  Vicomte de Valmont Perfume Oil

   I promised her my eternal love, and I actually thought that for a couple of hours. 

  Rake, scoundrel, demon in a frock coat. Devilishly seductive, ultimately tragic; a villain undone and redeemed by love. Based on an 18th century gentlemen’s cologne: ambergris, white musk, white sandalwood, Spanish Moss, orange blossom, three mints, jasmine, rose geranium and a spike of rosemary.

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