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This is amazing. Not as smoky as the dead leaves lotion, but the smoke element is present, the vanilla is not too sweet, and if you like patchouli this is a light earthy patch. This to me is a great base for layering other perfumes on top if you want a vanilla or patchouli base.

Royal Hojari frankincense, 7-year aged raw patchouli, oakmoss, Yemeni myrrh, green fig, omubiri resin, blackberry syrup, and a sprig of crushed mint.

A rolling, unhurried, volcanic passion sustained by a love that is slow, shy, patient, and wise – and expressed through a scent as warm, languorous, luxuriant, and comforting as a cloak of heavy, soft red velvet: deep burgundy musk, red labdanum, smoked rose petals, opoponax, 17-year aged patchouli, blackened vanilla bean, dried black cherries, blackberries, and tobacco absolute.

Dried blackberries and blueberries with licorice root, jasmine sambac, black amber, and black musk.

No additional scent description.

Tuberose and sweet amber.

A creamy coagulation of clove bud and goat's milk.

A perfume simply inspired by a vintage Christmas postcard. Rose cream, jasmine cream, mallow, vanilla foam, and sweet amber.

An offering made in the depths of the year’s darkness to honor the Solstice sun.

Le Jour des Morts is a scent of remembrance, a blessing for those who have come before us. It is a bittersweet incense with red roses, climbing ivy, black hellebore, black dahlias, and a drop of red wine. Le Jour des morts est un parfum de souvenir, une bénédiction pour ceux qui nous ont précédés. C'est un encens aigre-doux avec des roses rouges, du lierre grimpant, de l'hellébore noir, des dahlias noirs et une goutte de vin rouge. Inky black incense, drop of roses and ivy. I actually get a fair amount of dark incensey florals on top of all of this. Good throw and wear length.

A blast of mental energy: electric white mint, eucalyptus leaf, white frankincense, and blue-white musk.

A surrealist swirl of ethereal yellow bergamot, white pomegranate rind, lemon peel, and white musk.

Moving counter-clockwise through the room, you come upon the next stage. The backdrop is shredded, and seems to have been torn in a fury. On the remaining half of the canvas, you can barely make out a faded illustration of the sun setting over a pyramid. On the center of the platform, an elaborate golden sarcophagus has been set upright and propped up towards the edge of the stage. Beside it, upon the ground, sits a hooded lantern. A woman’s image is painted on the front of the sarcophagus, and upon the gold limned body, a tale is being told in hieroglyphics: scenes of murder, carnage, and grotesque, mad passion. Although you do not know the language, the inscription upon the tomb translates within your mind, and the words burn behind your eyes as if they were written in blood and fire: “The Guardian will never part the veil for her soul. Mighty Sutekh, have pity on us all.” A thin, dark-skinned man wearing a linen loincloth climbs onto the stage. His form is frail and withered, he is impossibly old, yet his long, straight hair is as black as the night skies. With solemn, reverential gravity, he slowly moves the casket lid aside. Within the box, you see a skeletal figure wrapped in stained, ragged cloths, draped in a mauve cloth. The dark-skinned man bends low, and lights the lanterna magica. From within the glass, images begin to form, and glowing alchemical symbols cast their eerie light onto the mummy. As the lights touch the creature, the desiccated body swells, and with horrific, agonizing slowness, a woman’s form begins to appear within the wrappings. At her chest, the rotted wrappings burst, exposing sinew and the glinting white bones of her ribs. Her hands reach towards her face, and with a screech of agony and eons-long rage, she tears the gauze from her glittering black eyes. The perfume of life-in-death: embalming herbs, black myrrh, white sandalwood, black orchid, paperwhites, olive blossom, tomb dust, and Moroccan jasmine. Jasmine, myrrh, sandalwood and something that smells like papyrus. For me, I am really amping up the jasmine which is covered in dusty book jacket over a resinous base. Compared to the 2006 version, the jasmine on my skin is definitely more prominent. I get less of the dust and resins, and definitely more white jasmine florals. Good throw and wear length.

Sugared cream, vanilla husk, white sandalwood, and flecks of caramel.

Toasted vanilla cream, smoky white fig, rice flower, and a drop of clove and patchouli.

A strangely sensual, darkly fae All Hallow’s Eve cologne, a perfume of the Otherworld: black pumpkin, leather, pomegranate incense, agarwood, and bourbon patchouli.

Salt-crusted wooden planks warmed by cardamom, 7-year aged patchouli, tonka bean, mace, and black pepper.

No further description.

A leathered up, musky interpretation of BPAL’s Antique Lace: dry flowers, aged linens, and the faint breath of long-faded perfumes with well-worn leather and caramel musk.

Tying in with our experimental work in fear: we have screamed into our Snake Oil… and we can’t stop sniffing ourselves! BPAL’s signature scent — deep, rich earthy notes swirled with vegetal musks, sugared vanilla bean, and dark spices — has been polluted by the funnel cake frenzy that is our Please Scream Inside Your Heart perfume blend. The results are so comforting, we almost forgot why we started screaming in the first place. (Almost.)

A soft glow illuminating the dusk: a somber variegated sunset sky of deep lilac, moonlit jasmine, and honeysuckle, the scent of damp grass, and a glimmer of pale amber.

Deep, rich, earthy notes swirled with vegetal musks, sugared vanilla bean, brown leather, and dark spices.

No additional scent description.

A sebaceous, slick reptilian perfume: green and black vegetal musks, kelp, sea salt, blackened opoponax, violet leaf, Siamese red benzoin, davana, squid ink, and ambergris accord.

An inner darkness: ink-black vegetal musk, opoponax, velvet myrrh, nagarmotha, black champa, labdanum, and plum honey.