doomsday_disco
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Everything posted by doomsday_disco
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An invitation: black amber and pink peony sealed in a creamy white paper envelope.
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The weather’s cold, so devilish hard My income friend, is suffering from the cramp, So please excuse this impecunious card, As all I’m good for is a used up. Sugared-crusted marshmallows and cinnamon candies.
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Steamed Milk and Marzipan.
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Terrible Moon: Pistachio and Vanilla Buttercream
doomsday_disco posted a topic in Duets & Menage A Trois
Pistachio and Vanilla Buttercream. -
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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The sun illuminates all. It is sublime consciousness, infallible clarity, perfect revelation. The Lovers live in the sun’s gaze, their union open, witnessed, and sanctified, the beams of life-affirming light warming and sustaining them. Amber and heliotrope aglow with golden frankincense, neroli, citrus peel, golden rose petals, and smoldering cedar incense.
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Strawberry Moon: Wild Strawberries and Inky Musk
doomsday_disco posted a topic in Duets & Menage A Trois
Wild Strawberries and Inky Musk. -
I'm going to need several bottles of this one. I've been having some nightmares lately after the passing of my eldest cat, and I haven't had any nightmares on the nights I've slathered this oil on my arms. It's a really comforting lavender scent. I definitely get the lavender, vanilla, lemon verbena, and the star anise. Although I typically detest star anise or anything licorice-adjacent, the other notes in this blend really help smooth it over to the point that I am not bothered by the anise in this. And the lemon verbena isn't too much at all -- it just adds a bit of brightness and lifts the scent a little. This is definitely among my favorite TAL oils, and I'm so thankful to have it. Now, to upgrade my decant to 3-4 bottles with the next Lunacy drop...
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A bedtime anointing oil for the prevention of nightmares. Contains: lavender, frankincense, chamomile, willow leaf, rue, hops, star anise, bourbon vanilla, and lemon verbena.
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Sweet cream, white honey, rice milk, Thai coconut milk, and mango.
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A tribute to Epidendrum nutans, the nocturnal seductress of the forest canopy. Sweet, indolic jasmine curls around a breath of citrus and moonlit air, a perfume that blooms when the world sleeps.
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Pleasure is a freedom-song, But it is not freedom. It is the blossoming of your desires, But it is not their fruit. It is a depth calling unto a height, But it is not the deep nor the high. It is the caged taking wing, But it is not space encompassed. Ay, in very truth, pleasure is a freedom-song. And I fain would have you sing it with fullness of heart; yet I would not have you lose your hearts in the singing. Some of your youth seek pleasure as if it were all, and they are judged and rebuked. I would not judge nor rebuke them. I would have them seek. For they shall find pleasure, but not her alone; Seven are her sisters, and the least of them is more beautiful than pleasure. Have you not heard of the man who was digging in the earth for roots and found a treasure? And some of your elders remember pleasures with regret like wrongs committed in drunkenness. But regret is the beclouding of the mind and not its chastisement. They should remember their pleasures with gratitude, as they would the harvest of a summer. Yet if it comforts them to regret, let them be comforted. And there are among you those who are neither young to seek nor old to remember; And in their fear of seeking and remembering they shun all pleasures, lest they neglect the spirit or offend against it. But even in their foregoing is their pleasure. And thus they too find a treasure though they dig for roots with quivering hands. But tell me, who is he that can offend the spirit? Shall the nightingale offend the stillness of the night, or the firefly the stars? And shall your flame or your smoke burden the wind? Think you the spirit is a still pool which you can trouble with a staff? Oftentimes in denying yourself pleasure you do but store the desire in the recesses of your being. Who knows but that which seems omitted today, waits for tomorrow? Even your body knows its heritage and its rightful need and will not be deceived. And your body is the harp of your soul, And it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused sounds. And now you ask in your heart, “How shall we distinguish that which is good in pleasure from that which is not good?” Go to your fields and your gardens, and you shall learn that it is the pleasure of the bee to gather honey of the flower, But it is also the pleasure of the flower to yield its honey to the bee. For to the bee a flower is a fountain of life, And to the flower a bee is a messenger of love, And to both, bee and flower, the giving and the receiving of pleasure is a need and an ecstasy. People of Orphalese, be in your pleasures like the flowers and the bees. Be in your pleasures like the flowers and the bees: candied rose petals, red honey, sweet berries, and luxuriant red musk.
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May Christmas shed lustre around you. Amber-illuminated roasted chestnut, cardamom, caramel, and allspice.
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Golden hay and sun-warmed straw, soft brown fur musk, ripe banana peel and green fig, steamed rice and almond milk, mimosa blossom, and pale yellow chrysanthemum.
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Nothing beats that classic fluffy, bouncy texture, rendered eternally moist thanks to shreds of fresh carrot, delicately spiced and slathered in lavender cream cheese icing – including the obligatory carrot on top, piped in purple frosting.
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Third in a series of prototypes for scents that were supposed to smell like… er… fucking, crafted for a musician’s promo.
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Coconut Milk and Rice.
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Bottled sunshine.
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Sugared lemon cream, lemon peel, raw sugar cane, cucumber, and black tea.
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A psychedelic evocation: electric lime rind and green tea absolute explode, sharp and strange, into a heart of violet-tinged wild plum while poppy smoke and ancient amber twist through black cherry incense, infernal red musk, and sugared nag champa.
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Lightly-honeyed skin musk bathed in pale incense smoke, a dusting of ritual chalk, black fig, clove bud, ambrette seed, and tobacco flower.
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“Good morning, Eeyore,” said Pooh. “Good morning, Pooh Bear,” said Eeyore gloomily. “If it is a good morning,” he said. “Which I doubt,” said he. “Why, what’s the matter?” “Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can’t all, and some of us don’t. That’s all there is to it.” “Can’t all what?” said Pooh, rubbing his nose. “Gaiety. Song-and-dance. Here we go round the mulberry bush.” “Oh!” said Pooh. He thought for a long time, and then asked, “What mulberry bush is that?” “Bon-hommy,” went on Eeyore gloomily. “French word meaning bonhommy,” he explained. “I’m not complaining, but There It Is.” Every solid friend group has at least one goth kid representing. Soft grey musk, pink thistle, lavender ash, tea leaves, pale iris, grey lilac, and rain-soaked moss. Each purchase of Gloomily, Gloomily comes with a 1/32 oz imp of The Donkey’s Tail. The Donkey’s Tail is not available for sale on its own, and make sure you keep it safe as you never know where it might end up.
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A diaphanous, nocturnal blend that shimmers between airy radiance and shadowed warmth. A silvery wash of moonflower and white heliotrope drifts over cool iris and gossamer musk, while golden amber resin and benzoin glow softly beneath like the living heat of beating wings. Threads of honeyed beeswax and tobacco flower lend a faint, feral sweetness, and a dusting of frankincense ash and myrrh smoke curls at the edges, recalling the dark from which she rises. Amelia Jane Murray, Lady Oswald
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Caramel cream, golden oud, sweet amber, praline milk, hazelnut, and cacao.
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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.