doomsday_disco
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Everything posted by doomsday_disco
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“O father, my father, and saw you not plain, The Erl-King’s pale daughter glide past thro’ the rain?” — “O yes, my loved treasure, I knew it full soon; It was the grey willow that danced to the moon.” Moonlit mist clinging to skin the color of ghost lilies, pearlescent and cold. A spectral musk possessing the sheen of river water at night.
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Dust-soft vellum, cracked leather, and yellowed pages exhaling their ghost of vanillin, a triple shot of espresso, and a deft swirl of warm, velvety microfoam.
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A bloodless scent stitched together like delicate antique lace, with a hint of powdered violet, plum brandy, and gleaming aldehydes.
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A bitterly cold, bone-white chypre; austere polar musk, vegan ambergris, and white tea combine to make a genteel, frigid perfume as bright and sharp as the first crack of glacial ice.
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A jolly Christmas for some. For others? Not so much. Frosted sage, icy green and menacing.
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O, who rides by night thro’ the woodland so wild? It is the fond father embracing his child; And close the boy nestles within his loved arm, To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm. The pale sugared blossoms of innocence wrapped tightly in sleet-soaked arms. Vanilla bourbon, cream peony, and white carnation enveloped in a warm, protective fortress of tonka, white cedar, orris root, red amber, and leather.
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The scent of ghost stories told beside a crackling fireplace, with garlands of evergreen hanging beside October’s carved pumpkins. Hearthlight and jack o’lanterns cast shadows on cobwebbed corners. Candied orange peel, mulled cider, smoked myrrh twirling through a cranberry garland, balsam resin and amber-drizzled pumpkin, smoldering hearthwood, and the soft honeyed glow of dripping beeswax.
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May Christmas shed lustre around you. Amber-illuminated roasted chestnut, cardamom, caramel, and allspice.
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Ladies, is it gay to have a skeletal system? Short answer: YES! Because the human wrist was undeniably made to flap and go “enh.” There are many theories about the historical origin of the so-called “limp wrist” gesture, which has bedeviled arbiters of masculine/feminine presentation since at least the ancient Roman times. So when we defiantly flop our phalanges, we’re reclaiming a time-honored tradition! And letting our skeletons do what they do most naturally: camp it up. Did you know the human wrist is made up of eight small bones, plus the forearm’s radius and ulna? Factor in the four small ones that comprise that lightly extended pinkie finger, and the number of bones required to execute this delicate maneuver add up to FOURTEEN. No wonder we’re always so tired. So defy nature if you truly must, but never forget: when bones are all that’s left of you, the wrists will be extra floppy. And we think that’s worth celebrating while you’re still alive! This scent debuted in 2023 as “Is He, You Know” but since this is commonly deployed as an equal-opportunity aphorism, we’ve created a campy companion scent: sweet 13-year aged patchouli, peru balsam, white oakmoss, spikenard, bourbon vanilla, sugar cane, and a sprig of lilac.
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A rich bourbon cream skin musk, formulated to announce and enhance whatever version of oneself is currently coming forth.
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A snowy, chilled pomegranate slurry.
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A festive and urgently mammalian response to inclement weather: a pair of blushing musks daubed with French lavender, flecks of fresh snow, and trickles of chilled champagne.
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These are dark times indeed... so here's a gourmand for the brooding scholar. The warm, nutty richness of roasted macadamia folded into the dry papery musk of time-worn tomes bound in crackled leather; golden drips of beeswax candlelight flicker against polished teakwood shelves, while the smoky warmth of fireplace smoke lingers in the air. (Nutty portmanteau absolutely intended. Don’t @ us.)
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Hungry Ghost Moon: Hazelnut Spread and Mini Marshmallows
doomsday_disco posted a topic in Duets & Menage A Trois
Hazelnut Spread and Mini Marshmallows. -
If this year’s Lupercalia fragrance collection was a book, it would be printed in blood-red ink rolled across the soft, stubborn bodies of dream-pale flowers, and stamped onto heavy black paper. We’d pass it around before the letters had a chance to dry, staining fingers with the turn of every page, marking the curious as aspiring erotes, as fellow Lupercalians. The sanguine contents of this text were made to be devoured by the eyes, the skin, the heart, and then the story continued by its readers, passed along to others. (As ever, please do not consume the perfumes internally or apply them to sensitive body parts. Don’t make us regret deploying such a fragrant metaphor, we’re trusting you to hang onto at least that much cognition.)
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Cracked leather and faded ink, dust-heavy pages steeped in echoes of prayer. Beeswax candles gutter in the shadows, their pale, amber light feebly holding back the dark. Low murmurs of frankincense and oakmoss anchor the stern hush of eternity. Vincent Van Gogh
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Patchouli and Smoked Vanilla.
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Pumpkin cream, honey, vanilla sugar, and smoked vanilla bean.
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In a desperate bid to mend the fractures of this cursed timeline, we are stretching Halloween beyond all reason, until time itself buckles and snaps back into place. It’s thirsty work, so here’s a snuggly blanket of creamy pumpkin cold foam quivering atop a pint of butterscotch ale.
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48, Rue de Courcelles. Eighteenth January 1847 My Dear Mrs. F. I send you, on the other side, the tremendous document which will make you for ninety years (I hope) a beautiful Punchmaker in more senses as one. I shall be delighted to dine with you on Thursday. Mr Foster says amen. Commend me to your Lord, and believe me (with respectful compliments to Lord Chesterfield) always Mrs. F. Faithfully yours, Charles Dickens. To make three pints of Punch Peel into a very strong common basin (which may be broken, in case of accident, without damage to the owner’s peace or pocket) the rinds of three lemons, cut very thin, and with as little as possible of the white coating between the peel and the fruit, attached. Add a double-handfull of lump sugar (good measure), a pint of good old rum, and a large wine-glass full of brandy – if it not be a large claret glass, say two. Set this on fire, by filling a warm silver spoon with the spirit, lighting the contents at a wax taper, and pouring them gently in. Let it burn three or four minutes at least, stirring it from time to time. Then extinguish it by covering the flame. Then squeeze in the juice of the three lemons, and add a quart of boiling water. Stir the whole well, cover it up for five minutes, and stir again. At this crisis (having skimmed off the lemon pips with a spoon) you may taste. If not sweet enough, add sugar to your liking, but observe that it will be a little sweeter presently. Pour the whole into a jug, tie a leather or coarse cloth over the top, so as to exclude the air completely, and stand it in a hot oven ten minutes, or on a hot stove one quarter of an hour. Keep it until it comes to table in a warm place near the fire, but not too hot. If it be intended to stand three or four hours, take half the lemon-peel out, or it will acquire a bitter taste. The same punch allowed to cool by degrees, and then iced, is delicious. It requires less sugar when made for this purpose. If you wish to produce it bright, strain it into bottles through silk. These proportions and directions will, of course, apply to any quantity.
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Bombastic Subtropical Turquoise Cream Pie
doomsday_disco posted a topic in Gifts with Donation or Purchase
Disclaimer: this perfume oil is not blue, it is not combustible, and it is not caffeinated. -
Shattered amber tears, smoked saffron, burnt sugar, myrrh, brown leather, peru balsam, vetiver, and ash. Joseph Mallord William Turner
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Piles of ube pumpkin cheesecake batter blorped into a brown sugar graham cracker crust.
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Roasted pumpkin soaked in golden brandy, clove, nutmeg, and vanilla absolute.