Chihuahua
Let’s workshop this poem about how, even if we vomit seeing the new-norm of halfling humans bred by diseased socio-environmental factors, those humans still deserve to have their needs respected
scent of the day: Promise, by Malle
First day wearing this, so still getting straight my strong emotions around this. Here are my notes.
One could describe this—once they wade through the thick cloud of pop synthetics—saffron-leather cypriol plus barrel-aged green-apple liquor (distillery like, somewhat similar in fact to Rogues Bonded) / As interesting as that might sound, this absolutely sucks / I was a bit pissed by the marring amberwoods aromachemics I get in Bonded in the drydown (which is not too heavily dosed but seems against the spirit of Rogue that I had in mind and will mean that I will not get another ROgue), but this—Promise—sucks: an abomination of suckery. / This is a no-go zone for me. The synthetics are crude and pedestrian and all too Botox Kardashian and gaudy-gold-staircase Trump / It represents, in unabashedly pure form, the evil pop-perfumery that is my antipode. / Many fragrances that I has raged against just for having a little bit of pop-autotune booster, but now they look so much better relative to how far this goes./ And that is another reason why I hate it, because now I worry it has degraded my tastes and I might go back to King Blue, for instance, and actually find it “not too bad.”/ I do like the nose-dive aroma after an hour or so: a leathery-liquor, but that smell is actually very generic (nothing new) / the synthetic bubble—so crude and pedestrian (like ghetto people yelling in the restaurant and then twerking on the table before a big Black-Friday-level fight breaks out) / This is exactly the gaudy-gold shallowness that made Trump such a hero in hip hop through the 80s and 90s. / I really hate this: I never appreciated the oomph behind the term “scrubber” so many people often use in the fragrance discussion boards, but now I do / this is the sexyy red of perfume, an abomination of mediocrity and decadence / If I was a religious man, this would be the smell of Satan and I would build in codes about how to handle people who wear this—and it would involve, just like it does for those women who have gotten spoiled through rape, stoning (to death) /
this norlimbinol-synthetic mess of lowest brow pop culture is worse than mangled sushi roles of imitation crab meat from a Chinese Buffett in a Podunk town that does not believe in sneeze guards, and yet the MSRP would suggest glistening nigiri pieces of champion bluefin tuna from a Michelin-starred restaurant in Tokyo. / Many more varieties of synthetics are here in Promise (and right from the start) than the one or two that mar Sacred Scarab in the deep dry down, a scent i otherwise love. / This is Kardashian-Trump pedestrian gaudiness. unlike with Gaultieri, whose synthetics i can tolerate (especially when I reframe the fragrance as parody of pop perfumery (Megamare is a good example of that) / but Promise seems too sincere to be parody / and if it is parody, I still cannot must enough intellectual spin-doctoring to tolerate it / Ambroxan is in here but do not blame ambroxan for this abomination / the amberwoods materials are much more extreme here than just the relatively innocent ethereal ambroxan: ambrocenide, amber Xtreme, norlimbinol—much more like that / the cypriol, a common ingredient in makign oud accords and for boosting real out, together with these autotune aromachemicals makes this read like the gaudiest furs—fake furs—on an empty blonde who, in the twilight zone reality in which we are in, counts as an armpiece / faux and tacky, crude and classless—those are the words that come to mind / this a prank, a punk / Promise is crude, but the least of the reason is that it is loud—after all, T Rex loud but its florals, lively and lovely, are some of the best you can smell / Promise is crude in opposite way in which Prin Lomros's work is said to be crude: whereas Promise is wild with aggressive pop synthetics, Prin (who actually has uses synthetics in a tasteful way) is wild with aggressive exotic naturals (an extreme I really like). / It is the difference between the pornographic work of Megan the Stallion and that of Chuck Palahniuk / Ormonde Jayne is toward the Promise synthetic-Ulta side of perfumery but comes with class and often with artistry (western at its decadent worst) whereas Bortnikoff is toward Prin natural-artisanal side but has class (eastern at its healthy best)
when you get to the base through the crude aromachemical cloud, the smell is good and aligned with my tastes—even Satan bears the imprint of God’s signet ring! That base, however, is generic (well, generic—it needs to be said—according to my experienced nose): a smoked castoereum leather like we get in Vareuk and Cuioum / I wish I could at least give it kudos for being unique, but that base is not unique to me (although I can see many thinking it is) / Yet I will say that the Promise does that cypriol-smoke reinforced leather base fairly nicely / it could be said that it adds a laquer touch to the leather that is interesting /
so, in effect: not the sweaty-rosy animalic masterpiece I was expecting but rather an overpriced aromachemical abomination whose only redeeming quality is the smoked-leather retro-masculine base (cypriol, castoreum, labdanum), which I already have well covered by Cuoium and Vareuk and that starts to show itself (through that crude-soulless-gaudy AI bubble of Kardashian-Trump Botox) only after more and an hour and only with nosedives through the synthetic decadence that never seems to quit
Chihuahua
Microplastics and soy,
the expanding creep of what
masculine traits count as toxic—
soon there will be, especially
among self-cucking whites,
enough halfling girlie-men
deserving, no matter what
bred them, respect
only the inhumane would withhold.