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Showing results for tags '2025'.
Found 638 results
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In the shadows of a neon hive-city, insectoid forms glide between thick curtains of bright green vines and crackling circuit boards. Blooming under sheets of acid rain and electric moons, this scent opens with the dark crackle of leather: slick, sunless, and alive with static. A surge of petrichor follows, like rainfall striking alien soil, soaking into a garden grown from strange seeds and synthetic spores. Peculiar blooms unfurl, humming with iridescent electricity. Moss clings to chrome roots, cybernetic orchids burst from humid soil.
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Lime Blossom & Amber Sugar.
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Yuzu & Warm Honey Drizzle.
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Lady of the Black Cat skull: sweet innocence with a dark mystery, wrapped in black leather and lace, guided by dreams and succumbing to nightmares. Sugared amber, orchid petals, and vanilla chiffon spiced with smoked cardamom.
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Jean Veber Pumpkin cream, honey, vanilla sugar, and smoked vanilla bean. In The Bottle: sweet, creamy vanilla and scratchy vanilla bean, with a breath of pumpkin. Yum! Wet On Skin: the pumpkin comes out a bit more and the honey with it, warming the scent up a bit. Dry Down: A beautiful, light pumpkin ice cream! In All: low throw, a sweet, gentle scent. Not too foodie. Perfect for daytime wear throughout the fall. Total keeper!
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A decadent, daintily debauched, and delightfully improper dragon, Flame-of-Burnt-Brandies love scandal and sparkle and whispers of delicious nonsense. They make their homes in séance parlours, stately manors, and abandoned ballrooms, and their scales flicker like flame on a holiday pudding: lavender, lilac, and lemon peel curling over brandy-soaked honeyed fig and sugared plums.
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We have resurrected Black Phoenix Trading Post’s sensual 2009 masterpiece. Red rose buds, with amber, clove, tonka, Indian musk, fir, and tobacco.
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Honey and Summer Herbs.
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A sensual, luxuriant scent that stays close to the skin: Australian sandalwood, tonka bean, benzoin, Siberian iris, bourbon vanilla, cardamom-infused amber, and mimosa petals. Egon Schiele
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A perfume simply inspired by a vintage Christmas postcard. Rose cream, jasmine cream, mallow, vanilla foam, and sweet amber.
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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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Liberty: In the Form of the Goddess of Youth, Giving Support to the Bald Eagle
doomsday_disco posted a topic in Limited Editions
Liberty, luminous and unafraid, bright with conviction, guided by idealism and steadied by resolve. A scent that is clear, exalted, and alive with purpose: olive leaf, pale amber, joyous neroli, polished brass, feathery vanilla chiffon, and spicy carnation. Edward Savage -
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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The Wissahickon is one of my favorite places in the world, and whenever we can, Ted and I lose ourselves in its winding paths. This painting calls to mind one of our favorite trails in autumn, when the leaves have begun to surrender to the earth and sunlight filters through ember, rust, and gold. The air is rich with the breath of living things, the green pulse of growth softened and deepened by the bitter sweetness of decay. Olga Wisinger-Florian
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Then she summoned a huntsman and said to him, “Take Snow-White out into the woods. I never want to see her again. Kill her, and as proof that she is dead bring her lungs and her liver back to me.” The huntsman obeyed and took Snow-White into the woods. He took out his hunting knife and was about to stab it into her innocent heart when she began to cry, saying, “Oh, dear huntsman, let me live. I will run into the wild woods and never come back.” Because she was so beautiful the huntsman took pity on her, and he said, “Run away, you poor child.” Mercy interrupting violence: well-worn leather shadowed by pine boughs, moss-slick bark, bloodroot and steel, and a tremble of wild apple. (Review thread creator note: This is a new Yule scent. If you're looking to review the 2018 release of The Huntsman, which was a Tarot scent, please click here.)
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Have I spoken this day of aught else? Is not religion all deeds and all reflection, And that which is neither deed nor reflection, but a wonder and a surprise ever springing in the soul, even while the hands hew the stone or tend the loom? Who can separate his faith from his actions, or his belief from his occupations? Who can spread his hours before him, saying, “This for God and this for myself; This for my soul, and this other for my body?” All your hours are wings that beat through space from self to self. He who wears his morality but as his best garment were better naked. The wind and the sun will tear no holes in his skin. And he who defines his conduct by ethics imprisons his song-bird in a cage. The freest song comes not through bars and wires. And he to whom worshipping is a window, to open but also to shut, has not yet visited the house of his soul whose windows are from dawn to dawn. Your daily life is your temple and your religion. Whenever you enter into it take with you your all. Take the plough and the forge and the mallet and the lute, The things you have fashioned in necessity or for delight. For in revery you cannot rise above your achievements nor fall lower than your failures. And take with you all men: For in adoration you cannot fly higher than their hopes nor humble yourself lower than their despair. And if you would know God be not therefore a solver of riddles. Rather look about you and you shall see Him playing with your children. And look into space; you shall see Him walking in the cloud, outstretching His arms in the lightning and descending in rain. You shall see Him smiling in flowers, then rising and waving His hands in trees. A perfume of the sacred in the ordinary and the value of labor, joy built from the things you carry into the temple of your days. Golden hay, frankincense tears, hearthsmoke, amber-streaked cedar, and beeswax.
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The Festival of Lights, a celebration of life, prosperity, and the triumph of good over evil, light over darkness, and knowledge over ignorance. The first day, Dhanvantari Triodasi, honors Lakshmi, the Goddess of Wealth, Good Fortune, and Splendor, and Yama, Lord of Death and the Keeper of the Book of Destiny. The second day, Narak-Chaturdashi, celebrates Lord Krishna's victory over the demon lord, Narkasur. On this day, fierce Kali, the Great and Terrible Mother, is venerated, and she is entreated to grant her children strength. Narak-Chaturdashi also commemorates the birth of Hanuman, the vanara who helped Lord Rama rescue Sita from Ravana, the Rakshasa king. The third day, called Diwali, is wholly devoted to the worship and propitiation of Lakshmi, She Who is as Beautiful as a Lotus. The fourth day, Annakut, is the first day of the lunar New Year. Old accounts are settled, new ventures begin. On the fifth and final day of Diwali, Bhayiduj, sibling love is celebrated. It is a time to banish ignorance and hate, and to dissolve jealousy. It is a time to renew our spirits through light and understanding, and to ask for blessings of prosperity and joy for the upcoming year. It is a time where we embrace our friends and forgive our enemies. Lotus root, mogra, mango, tamarind, cardamom, clove, almond milk, cashew, rice flower, coconut, supari, raisins, and incense crafted from aloeswood, red sandalwood, cedar, and spikenard In the bottle this smells of sweet fruit and amber. On the skin, this is reminding me strongly of how I remember Hymn to Proserpine – sweet fruit and amber. Comparing the two, Hymn to Proserpine is much sweeter and stronger on the amber, but they are similar. This is a bit tarter and I can tell that it’s mango now and not pomegranate. There’s a touch of coconut but it’s very faint and something green and very fresh. This is a very well blended scent and everything is meshing together so well. There’s something similar here to Hungry Ghost Moon – I’m thinking it must be the rice flower. As it wears the incense comes out and mixes with the amber and fruit. After it’s been on a bit, the spices are starting to come out – not in an overpowering way, but in a way that just hints at them. They are very soft but definitely there in the background adding so nicely to the incense, amber and fruits. If I had to summarize in a sentence, I’d say rich dark fruits, amber, and incense. I’m so glad that I got a bottle of this – it’s beautiful. eta: OMG - I just tried this again and it's reminding me of Feminite du Bois (which I adore!)! It's not exact, but I think it may be better in fact. Woods, incense, amber and fruit. I have to get another bottle before this goes away.
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Streams of frozen amber, snow-dusted frankincense, birch bark, Peru balsam, and rivulets of smoldering beeswax. Gustav Lange
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A sun-warmed bloom, its fragrance unfurls in lush waves: rich and creamy, like chocolate and nectar mingling in the sultry air. A scent both decadent and wild, glistening with heady sweetness.
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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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May Christmas shed lustre around you. Amber-illuminated roasted chestnut, cardamom, caramel, and allspice.
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Black patchouli, obsidian, and oudh. This is definitely dominated by the black patchouli on me, but it's not an especially gnarly patch - just very earthy and grounding. I don't get a whole lot of oudh but I'm hoping it comes out more with a little ageing, and as for the obsidian - I confess, I'm not entirely sure what that could be. I'm not smelling anything like a stone or glass note, but it might be a type of musk. Not black musk... something a little softer. In fact, the whole thing is softer than the notes might lead you to believe. All in all this is pretty much what I was hoping it would be so I'm very glad I bought a bottle. If you're a patchouli lover, you won't be disappointed.
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Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath! When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf, And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief And the year smiles as it draws near its death. Wind of the sunny south! oh, still delay In the gay woods and in the golden air, Like to a good old age released from care, Journeying, in long serenity, away. In such a bright, late quiet, would that I Might wear out life like thee, 'mid bowers and brooks And dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks, And music of kind voices ever nigh; And when my last sand twinkled in the glass, Pass silently from men, as thou dost pass. Dry, cold autumn wind. A rustle of red leaves, a touch of smoke and sap in the air. This is the scent I've looked forward to - some of my favorite autumn smells, all rolled into a single perfume. In the bottle, this was sharp and masculine. Ooo, very sharp. Wet, it transformed immediately to the scent of mouldering leaves, with an overtone of men's cologne. Dry, the throw is all wet, decaying leaves (which I find quite pleasant), but unfortunately, when I bring my wrist to my nose, all I smell is cheap men's cologne and a whiff of musk. On the whole, I think my skin chemistry has played me false once more.
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Here is Edward Bear, coming downstairs now, bump, bump, bump, on the back of his head, behind Christopher Robin. It is, as far as he knows, the only way of coming downstairs, but sometimes he feels that there really is another way, if only he could stop bumping for a moment and think of it. And then he feels that perhaps there isn’t. Anyhow, here he is at the bottom, and ready to be introduced to you. Winnie-the-Pooh. When I first heard his name, I said, just as you are going to say, “But I thought he was a boy?” “So did I,” said Christopher Robin. “Then you can’t call him Winnie?” “I don’t.” “But you said——” “He’s Winnie-ther-Pooh. Don’t you know what ‘ther’ means?” “Ah, yes, now I do,” I said quickly; and I hope you do too, because it is all the explanation you are going to get. Honey-slathered buttered toast, glittering amber beams of sunlight, warm milk, cotton stuffing, and cuddly roasted vanilla.
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Separation, the veil of distinction. A tumble of pearly pale-blue chiffon shot through with slashes of white ginger and lined with ivory satin rosettes.
