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  Diana Perfume Oil

  My temple stands in Ephesus: hie thee thither,
  And do upon mine altar sacrifice.
  There, when my maiden priests are met together,
  before the people all,
  Reveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife:
  To mourn thy crosses, with thy daughter’s, call
  And give them repetition to the life.
  Or perform my bidding, or thou livest in woe;
  Do it, and happy; by my silver bow!

  Artemis, standing in her golden chariot… driving off with her fast-trotting deer over the hills and far away to some rich-scented sacrifice: leather, gleaming golden amber, red amaranth, cypress, asphodel accord, a gleam of silver, and soft brown musk.

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  The Day Burned White Perfume Oil

  Using the door, which was centrally placed in the wall like a mouth, the artists had sprayed a single, vast head onto the stripped plaster. The painting was more adroit than most she had seen, rife with detail that lent the image an unsettling veracity. The cheekbones jutting through skin the color of buttermilk; the teeth, sharpened to irregular points, all converging on the door. The sitter’s eyes were, owing to the room’s low ceiling, set mere inches above the upper lip, but this physical adjustment only lent force to the image, giving the impression that he had thrown his head back. Knotted strands of his hair snaked from his scalp across the ceiling. Was it a portrait? There was something naggingly specific in the details of the brows and the lines around the wide mouth; in the careful picturing of those vicious teeth. A nightmare certainly: a facsimile, perhaps, of something from a heroin fugue. Whatever its origins, it was potent. Even the illusion of door-as-mouth worked. The short passageway between living room and bedroom offered a passable throat, with a tattered lamp in lieu of tonsils. Beyond the gullet, the day burned white in the nightmare’s belly. The whole effect brought to mind a ghost train painting. The same heroic deformity, the same unashamed intention to scare. And it worked; she stood in the bedroom almost stupefied by the picture, its red-rimmed eyes fixing her mercilessly.

  Plaster and spraypaint, mottled with buttermilk – sweet, chalky, and edging on sickly. White and golden amber beams of daylight pour through the belly of the scent, while oakmoss and Spanish moss add a touch of decay.

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  Apostrophe of Time Perfume Oil

  O fleeting Time! whence art thou come?
  And whither do thy footsteps tend?
  Deep in the past where was thy home,
  And where thy future journey’s end?

  Thou art from vast eternity,
  And unto boundless regions found;
  But what and where’s infinity?
  And what know we of space unbound?

  The furrowed brow betokens age;
  But who thy centuries can tell?
  Was ancient seer or learned sage
  In wisdom’s lore e’er versed so well?

  Hast thou from childhood wandered thus,
  Companionless and lone, through space,
  With mystery o’er thy exodus,
  And darkness ’round thy resting place.

  What lengthened years have come and gone,
  Since thou thy tireless march began,
  Since Luna’s children sang at dawn,
  The wonders of creation’s plan?

  How many years of gloom and night
  Had passed, long ere yon king of day
  Had reigned his fiery steeds of light,
  And sped them on their shining way?

  Thou knowest — Thou alone, O thou!
  Omniscient and eternal Three!
  To whose broad eye all time is now —
  The past, with all eternity;

  In whose dread presence I shall stand,
  When time shall sink to rise no more,
  In that broad sea of thy command,
  Whose waves roll on, without a shore.
  – James Madison Bell

  The overwhelming incalculability of space, the glow and fade of countless days, the starry expanse of night. A scent that reaches into eternity and towards forever: glittering bergamot, lemon peel, and golden amber, star-flecked labdanum, neroli, and clary sage.

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  Lines to a Nasturtium (A Lover Muses) Perfume Oil

  Anne Spencer
  
  Flame-flower, Day-torch, Mauna Loa,
  I saw a daring bee, today, pause, and soar,
  Into your flaming heart;
  Then did I hear crisp, crinkled laughter
  As the furies after tore him apart?
  A bird, next, small and humming,
  Looked into your startled depths and fled…
  Surely, some dread sight, and dafter
  Than human eyes as mine can see,
  Set the stricken air waves drumming
  In his flight.
   
  Day-torch, Flame-flower, cool-hot Beauty,
  I cannot see, I cannot hear your flutey;
  Voice lure your loving swain,
  But I know one other to whom you are in beauty
  Born in vain:
  Hair like the setting sun,
  Her eyes a rising star,
  Motions gracious as reeds by Babylon, bar
  All your competing;
  Hands like, how like, brown lilies sweet,
  Cloth of gold were fair enough to touch her feet.
  Ah, how the sense reels at my repeating,
  As once in her fire-lit heart I felt the furies
  Beating, beating.
   
  Hair like the setting sun, eyes a rising star, and a heart fire-lit: golden amber, warm nutmeg, cardamom pod, tolu balsam, sweet patchouli, vanilla absolute, wildflower honey, lovage root, and cacao.

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