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  Event Horizon Perfume Oil

  A disconcerting scent, heavy and oppressive, through which no light, no matter, and no spirit can escape. Black opium, labdanum, opoponax, black orchid, and benzoin.

  Select Options This product has multiple variants. The options may be chosen on the product page
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  Le Lèthè Perfume Oil

  Viens sur mon coeur, âme cruelle et sourde,
  Tigre adoré, monstre aux airs indolents;
  Je veux longtemps plonger mes doigts tremblants
  Dans l’épaisseur de ta crinière lourde;

  Dans tes jupons remplis de ton parfum
  Ensevelir ma tête endolorie,
  Et respirer, comme une fleur flétrie,
  Le doux relent de mon amour défunt.

  Je veux dormir! dormir plutôt que vivre!
  Dans un sommeil aussi doux que la mort,
  J’étalerai mes baisers sans remords
  Sur ton beau corps poli comme le cuivre.

  Pour engloutir mes sanglots apaisés
  Rien ne me vaut l’abîme de ta couche;
  L’oubli puissant habite sur ta bouche,
  Et le Léthé coule dans tes baisers.

  À mon destin, désormais mon délice,
  J’obéirai comme un prédestiné;
  Martyr docile, innocent condamné,
  Dont la ferveur attise le supplice,

  Je sucerai, pour noyer ma rancoeur,
  Le népenthès et la bonne ciguë
  Aux bouts charmants de cette gorge aiguë
  Qui n’a jamais emprisonné de coeur.

  – – –

  Come, lie upon my breast, cruel, insensitive soul,
  Adored tigress, monster with the indolent air;
  I want to plunge trembling fingers for a long time
  In the thickness of your heavy mane,

  To bury my head, full of pain
  In your skirts redolent of your perfume,
  To inhale, as from a withered flower,
  The moldy sweetness of my defunct love.

  I wish to sleep! to sleep rather than live!
  In a slumber doubtful as death,
  I shall remorselessly cover with my kisses
  Your lovely body polished like copper.

  To bury my subdued sobbing
  Nothing equals the abyss of your bed,
  Potent oblivion dwells upon your lips
  And Lethe flows in your kisses.

  My fate, hereafter my delight,
  I’ll obey like one predestined;
  Docile martyr, innocent man condemned,
  Whose fervor aggravates the punishment.

  I shall suck, to drown my rancor,
  Nepenthe and the good hemlock
  From the charming tips of those pointed breasts
  That have never guarded a heart.

  Red musk and sweat-damp golden skin musk with labdanum, golden amber, nutmeg, tobacco absolute, black orchid, and hemlock accord.

  Select Options This product has multiple variants. The options may be chosen on the product page
• 

  Seven Word Story: Gluttony Perfume Oil

  The subject of our latest #BPAL7wordstory contest was Gluttony. The winning entry was submitted by Crystal Rose-Thompson:

  The Sirens Eagerly Beckoned the Approaching Ship

  Sea splash on murky labdanum and gleaming olibanum, veiled in lavender, diaphanous osmanthus, gilded saffron, and honey incense.

  Out of Stock
• 

  The Buffalo Man Perfume Oil

  Darkness; a sensation of falling—as if he were tumbling down a great hole, like Alice. He fell for a hundred years into darkness. Faces passed him, swimming out of the black, then each face was ripped up and away before he could touch it . . .

  Abruptly, and without transition, he was not falling. Now he was in a cave, and he was no longer alone. Shadow stared into familiar eyes: huge, liquid black eyes. They blinked.

  Under the earth: yes. He remembered this place. The stink of wet cow. Firelight flickered on the wet cave walls, illuminating the buffalo head, the man’s body, skin the color of brick clay.

  “Can’t you people leave me be?” asked Shadow. “I just want to sleep.”

  The buffalo man nodded, slowly. His lips did not move, but a voice in Shadow’s head said, “Where are you going, Shadow?”

  “Cairo.”

  “Why?”

  “Where else have I got to go? It’s where Wednesday wants me to go. I drank his mead.” In Shadow’s dream, with the power of dream logic behind it, the obligation seemed unarguable: he drank Wednesday’s mead three times, and sealed the pact—what other choice of action did he have?

  The buffalo-headed man reached a hand into the fire, stirring the embers and the broken branches into a blaze. “The storm is coming,” he said. Now there was ash on his hands, and he wiped it onto his hairless chest, leaving soot-black streaks.

  “So you people keep telling me. Can I ask you a question?”

  There was a pause. A fly settled on the furry forehead. The buffalo man flicked it away. “Ask.”

  “Is this true? Are these people really gods? It’s all so . . .” He paused. Then he said, “impossible,” which was not exactly the word he had been going for but seemed to be the best he could do.

  “What are gods?” asked the buffalo man.

  “I don’t know,” said Shadow.

  Warm dark brown musk, woodsmoke, and deep pools of labdanum.

  Out of Stock