doomsday_disco
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Everything posted by doomsday_disco
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Hungry Ghost Moon: Pineapple and Red Hot Honey
doomsday_disco posted a topic in Duets & Menage A Trois
Pineapple and Red Hot Honey. -
Honey and Summer Herbs.
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The tiniest of dragons, these flirty, silly, and theatrical beasts build their nests in gilded opera boxes, toy stores, and above confectionaries and sweet shops. Their scales blaze like a handful of maraschino cherries and red currants bathed in fluorescent lighting, sparkling with sugar crystals and drizzled with vanilla liqueur.
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Peach Rock Candy.
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Pumpkin cream, honey, vanilla sugar, and smoked vanilla bean.
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A strangely sensual, darkly fae All Hallow’s Eve cologne, a perfume of the Otherworld: black pumpkin, leather, pomegranate incense, agarwood, and bourbon patchouli.
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The fear of Halloween. Menacing Haitian vetiver, patchouli, and clove with a shock of bourbon geranium, grim oakmoss, and dread-inspiring balsams pierce the innocuous scent of autumn leaves.
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Airy brioche infused with spiced pumpkin and silken vanilla with a slow drizzle of maple warmed by sugared amber.
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This is the scent of pure graveyard dust, spattered with grave loam and dusted lightly with tombstone moss.
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Brown sugar cookies with fat chunks of cinnamon-dusted apple and swirls of caramel.
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Then said a teacher, Speak to us of Teaching. And he said: No man can reveal to you aught but that which already lies half asleep in the dawning of your knowledge. The teacher who walks in the shadow of the temple, among his followers, gives not of his wisdom but rather of his faith and his lovingness. If he is indeed wise he does not bid you enter the house of his wisdom, but rather leads you to the threshold of your own mind. The astronomer may speak to you of his understanding of space, but he cannot give you his understanding. The musician may sing to you of the rhythm which is in all space, but he cannot give you the ear which arrests the rhythm nor the voice that echoes it. And he who is versed in the science of numbers can tell of the regions of weight and measure, but he cannot conduct you thither. For the vision of one man lends not its wings to another man. And even as each one of you stands alone in God’s knowledge, so must each one of you be alone in his knowledge of God and in his understanding of the earth. A perfume for knowledge and the wisdom to wield it well: frankincense, green cedar, white sandalwood, bay leaf, and hyssop.
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Who wants to go Dutch with us on a warm slice of buttered pumpkin bread covered in chocolate candy sprinkles?
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A dream hearse for anyone who grew up presiding over numerous doll funerals: flashy pink guava, strawberry jam, sugared pink grapefruit, blackberry, bergamot, and pink champagne adorned with a gleaming chrome Landau bar.
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A shiny, genteel, vintage ride for all those who feel dead inside: lime rind, citron, petitgrain, white musk, a swish of bay rum and a bit of black pepper.
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A venerable summer update prototype that went unreleased.
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A chilled, sticky, blue-flavored scent that was a prototype for a film promo.
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A 99-cent drugstore eyeliner freshly melted with a Bic lighter, in concert with the leathery metallic gleam of a well-loved pyramid spike bracelet.
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Hollow plastic shells of mango sherbet and musky black clove echoing with a ghostly miaow of glowing amber.
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"Darling, it's not chaos. It's couture." The scent of a goblin atelier: a strange alchemy of high-end avant-garde perfume, animalic musk, and silk stitched with scraps of leather colliding with honeyed ale, dust from shattered rhinestones, and the oily sparkle of iron.
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A tribute to the squeaky plastic rats that haunt every Halloween bin — adorable little horrors with gleaming eyes and crooked tails. Shiny black licorice, grey amber, and a dusting of smoky black pepper.
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A glass of midnight stout, thick with black chocolate and roasted barley, its foam kissed with bitter espresso. A pale disc of buttered shortbread rests against the rim, crumbling into the inky depths. A strange eclipse of comfort and shadow: warm, crumbly biscuit and golden butter swallowed by a swirl of dark malt, molasses, and cocoa.
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the butterfly having disappeared my spirit came back to me — Wafū, trans. R. H. Blyth Wings unfolding in darkness, an echo of silence, the softest flutter, and then gone. Shadow-dappled tuberose and black orchid, buffeted by crumpled violet leaves and ink-dipped tea roses. A glint of obsidian musk slinks beneath, woven with scorched vanilla resin, dusty myrrh, and the faintest touch of crushed blackberry skin.
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Piles of ube pumpkin cheesecake batter blorped into a brown sugar graham cracker crust.
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Tartly sweet, brusquely pavement-kissed, zesty with fermentation, dusted with leaf-litter, and relished by opportunistic squirrels craving a tipple.
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Nothing will squash our interest in creating new pumpkin scents!