SCENT OF THE DAY: Persephone, by Prin
Jubilation 25 meet Rochas Femme but made very very nasty (the good) and with a big boost of synthetic musk (the bad) ultimately over Prins standard leather base—that is Persephone. Persephone has the high boosted musk of indigo night. Persephone is overdosed on that deer musk Accord. it's very similar to the Musk in indigo nights and at the base of Silver Oud. it's pretty overdosed. if I didn't like that synthetic, this would be cloying and bad. But I don't mind that synthetic actually, I find it kind of pleasant. it's a little pedestrian which sucks. But yeah, the first experience is it's kind of neutral if I never smelled this musk before. since I am not repulsed by it, I probably think it's pretty impressive on a nose dive. You get a lot of the cumin and animalics, but from afar it's all that musk. it's kind of like the equivalent of the Amber Woods that I hate in in the throw of it and I can picture somebody hating this musk as much as I hate the Amber Woods so that idea in my head kind of ruins it a little bit for me, but if this was an actual musk it would be really good. it has that arsal cumin at a nose dive but less of that honey kind of queasy beeswax you get in arsalon and in burmite honey. I think those are better scents. it is a bit run-of-the-mill for prin. it doesn't stand out. The prin cumin dry down in Persephone is lovely. The leather base and florals has salome feel. But the way the cumin comes of is like Jubilation 25 woman. it is good i now see. i only needed 5 ml. The offense factor here, downright rancid, rivals Onthamara and Homa and Arsalon. These are all better fragrances though because of their less aggressive synthetics.
*Let's workshop this poem about a bowhunting DVD whose cover conjures images of black-men-on-blonde-belle gangbangs (and even of whites posing next to black bodies lynched after her cries of rape)
Sporting Goods, 2005
On the spin rack between the camping stoves and the fishing rods, one DVD hooked his eye: Whitetail Obsession 8: a bow-hunting video he mistook at first, as his wife fingered the lures like a row of prayer wheels, for amateur smut. Cockeyed beneath a plastic overlay smudged by handlers like him (mirrored in fluorescence), its cover had enough of that lo-fi feel—faded matte fuzz of a living-room printer on the fritz— that he shook his head as would a wet retriever. “Hey Babe! Come check this fuckin shit out.”
The neon title font said it all. Paintbrush script—
white sparkle glints on the sharpest corners,
black drop shadow with no transparency—
cut over a pixelated twelve-pointer head held
high by a MILF-looking blonde in her camo.
“What?” He read the subtitle, “Heat of the Rut,”
and looked around. “This a mahfuckin prank?”
The back blurb, over a washed-out screen grab,
spoke of “a double backshot,” “massive girth,”
“swollen glands,” “grunt tubes,” and even how
“Tammi takes on the biggest buck of her life.”
“We need books that affect us like a disaster, that grieve us deeply, like the death of someone we loved more than ourselves, like being banished into forests far from everyone, like a suicide. A book must be the axe for the frozen sea within us.”—Kafka (against the safe-space cancel culture pushed by anti-art bullies, left and right)
