doomsday_disco
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Everything posted by doomsday_disco
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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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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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“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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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.
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After thirty years of reluctantly drinking coffee, Ted has become a bean aficionado thanks to a local shop called the Head Nut. Recently, we bought French vanilla and bourbon chocolate beans from them and ever since that day, Ted has been hooked. Of course, Ted’s morning coffee is the breakfast beverage equivalent to a cozy hug: a slow-simmered swirl of brown sugar melting into steamed milk, wrapped around the soothing, sweet warmth of vanilla-infused espresso.
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Le Tits Now is mostly about the champagne on me, which is quite fizzy, bright, and almost soda-like in this scent. I've tested this twice, and the champagne reigns on my skin in full force for about five hours before I get much of anything else from this. I believe this features the chilly, sweet snow note of Snow White, but the fizzy champagne makes me question if that's really the snow note I'm smelling. I smell a little musk with the snow note after the champagne calms down at the end of a long day, adding a nice backdrop to the champagne and snow, and I'm pleased to report that there's no red musk among the blushing musks featured here. Sadly, I'm not really getting any lavender from this, but that could just be due to my skin making this a champagne party for hours on end. In any case, I'll definitely be keeping my bottle, and I plan to wear this tomorrow to ring in the new year.
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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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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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Lady of the mythical bird Roc – feathers plucked from her hair, spoken spells and hooka smoke, card readings and watching through the mirror. Honeyed hookah tobacco, spiced and dried dark fruits, smoked molasses, and champaca absolute.
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Pomegranate Loukoumi and Champagne.
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Buttercream-frosted angel food cake and a smear of strawberry lip gloss.
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Strawberry preserves twisting through clouds of pink cotton candy and marshmallow fluff.
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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. -
He stopped short by the door. “What is the matter?” he cried. “For God’s sake, what are you doing!” I kept on creeping just the same, but I looked at him over my shoulder. “I’ve got out at last,” said I, “in spite of you and Jane! And I’ve pulled off most of the paper, so you can’t put me back!” Now why should that man have fainted? But he did, and right across my path by the wall, so that I had to creep over him every time! Torn paper revealing scorched plaster embedded with bitter citron, yellow grapefruit, and damp white cedar.
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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 row of plump, cardamom-spiced sweet buns overflowing with pooflets of lavender cream and almond paste.