doomsday_disco
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Everything posted by doomsday_disco
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In the song attributed to Homer, their devotion turns the tide of war. Patroclus is the hidden heart of the warrior, the tender pulse beneath iron and oath. When he falls, the world blackens, grief becomes wildfire, and pride is burned away in the furnace of loss and sorrow. This is love as ordeal and the beloved as mirror of the soul. Nigredo in the shadow of the pyre, calcination in the roar of battle. From mourning rises terrible clarity, bright and merciless as a drawn blade. Love does not soften fate; it forges it. Bronze-bright armor warmed by the sun, salt-wind off the Aegean, crushed amarantos beneath restless feet, and the metallic sting of blood on sand.
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Desperate need disguised as disdain. He caught a real live one: black licorice winding through black plum, a champagne pop over the fever-warmth of labdanum and leather-slick benzoin all gleaming with stage-hot rosin slick on a horsehair bow.
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Bamboo, green fig, narcissus, white patchouli, tobacco flower, white tea, lemon verbena, and oakmoss.
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A fragrance inspired by the buzzing prophesies of nymphs, the devotions of ancient priestesses, and the bounty of honied hives. Wildflower honey, frankincense, olive blossoms, and cinnamon.
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Ecstasy and heresy on the Heath of the He-Goat: molten labdanum drips like blood onto bare skin, red musk thrums with carnal hunger, and gleaming red amber smolders against the writhing curve of the body.
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Gleaming red-tinged eyes peering from the shadows. Ink stains and smoke weave tendrils through aged blackened patchouli, rich amber, and infernal musk.
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A wandering innamorato whose heart is as quick to break as it is to swear eternal devotion; all graceful gestures, honeyed words, and impossible romances played beneath painted skies. A bouquet dropped upon the stage before the final curtain. White carnations, orris butter, white rose, heliotrope, sugared almond blossom, bourbon vanilla silk, Venetian musk, pale sandalwood, beeswax, and a flourish of bergamot.
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A moan and a groan and a sigh: scorched butterscotch, acrid on the edges, dipped in red labdanum and cognac, with a sting of saffron, pink pepper, and woodsmoke.
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Deathless Aphrodite of the spangled mind, child of Zeus, who twists lures, I beg you do not break with hard pains, O lady, my heart Translation by Anne Carson The tenth muse: purple fig, sun-warmed thyme, rose resin, orris, olive oil, and myrrh.
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Bittersweet cacao drifting through the aromatic warmth of freshly brewed black tea.
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On Monday, when the sun is hot I wonder to myself a lot: “Now is it true, or is it not, “That what is which and which is what?” On Tuesday, when it hails and snows, The feeling on me grows and grows That hardly anybody knows If those are these or these are those. On Wednesday, when the sky is blue, And I have nothing else to do, I sometimes wonder if it’s true That who is what and what is who. On Thursday, when it starts to freeze And hoar-frost twinkles on the trees, How very readily one sees That these are whose—but whose are these? On Friday—— Hot, sunny cardamom amber and milky musk, honeyed rice and snowy slush.
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Black Honey, Black Cherry, and Kyphi Smoke.
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Oscar Parviainen BPAL’s sibilant Snake Oil getting chomped by the cool, pale, sepulchral pallor of white sandalwood, orris root, frankincense, ambrette seed, and rice powder.
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Absolute freedom: austere, untethered, liberated, and haunting. This is the scent of the wilderness after civilization collapses: a whiff of well-worn leather and pale lilies silently prowling through ancient, moss-thick forests, silvered sage, mountain air, and the fast-fading memory of an 18th century Italian perfume. A scent wind-struck and untouchable, walking into eternity without regret.
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Honeyed Oud.
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Who am I, Louis? Am I my history I have endured? Am I the job I do not want? I do not know anymore. No one has painted me in over 400 years. An ancient grief hidden beneath exquisite restraint. Beauty preserved in ice and amber, this scent opens luminous, weightless and angelic, composed and immaculate, but as it blooms, it is a calculated cacophony of contradictions: sacred and artificial, tender and monstrous, youthful and impossibly old. White musk, iris, and frankincense fougere unfolding like a prayer, but beneath it lies something feral and desperately starving for love, but utterly incapable of loving without consuming: resinous woods, blackened clove, and blood-tinged incense.
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Black Honey and Opium Poppy.
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Orange Blossom Honey and Silver Musk.
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Spiced Honey and Raw Patchouli.
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Well-worn, soft leather encircled by spiky gilded amber.
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"Knock knock…" The unpleasant hand reaching out through the window with your treat smells suspiciously of crunchy leaves, well-worn black leather, cardamom pod, moonlit yellow bergamot, woodmoss, molasses, and vanilla-slapped buttermilk. You resist the urge to reply "Who's there?" realizing you don't actually want to know.
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A scientific experiment gone horribly right: the blurry outline of a flash-frozen banana skewered on a stick and dunked in a shimmering mixture of sheer musk and evaporated milk, sprinkled with invisible nuts.
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A condensed milk lolly sheathed in a cylindrical carapace of pressed coconut shavings and tea-stained linen, shot through with bitumen, myrrh, and embalming resin mix-ins.
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This frozen rice-milk confection can't wait to burst out of its glutinous tomb and flood the palate with recovered memories of swaying black moss, hemp fibers, bone-white sandalwood, orris root, and bog osmanthus. Ow, brain freeze!
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A slow-churned frozen mixture of goat’s milk, marshmallow, vanilla cashmere, honey dust, and white chocolate, served in a wailing waffle cone.