That night was so very dark  that day and I wore a new perfume…Cultus Artem Poeticus.  High was the night on the hour of our meeting. The brisk mantle of autumn lay upon the quiet rooftops of Paris, lit only by a few windows here and there, piercing through the nightly horizon like a constellation of homes. I leaned on the balustrade – the frost crisped its edges, it shone like silver-glass. I descried afar the unfinished towers of Saint Eustache, an ochre skeleton resting with a watchful eye over the City of Lights. The people in the room were young and  discussing philosophy surrounded in a haze of cigarette smoke and whiskey vapours. And cognac also.

I leaned on the balustrade. I breathed in the silence and mute shades of light. I breathed in your voice as you stepped out of the room and into my life. A warm voice and suave, with a slight whiff of plum wine. And we stood there alone, you and I, with the Moon reflecting on your face. Time fell out of time; space there was no more. Nothing else but you in dim light, in hues of grey and green and blue; and the corner of your eyes burnt of the bright yellowness pouring out of the inside.

Another window there was across the room opening towards the Eiffel Tower. The floor was polished like a mirror, some there were kissing in the leather sofa, others there were dancing betwixt the plants and the buddhas, and some even stayed up talking and sipping huge glasses of wine. The radio played one of such things which you liked and which I liked and which slipped out of my memory as you did too…

We danced you and I. Dizzy from wine and love and the dust of marijuana, we swayed in each other’s arms. The air felt hot against my neck and my heart was beating in my eyes as I looked at you, at your face like a sunrise in the midst of night. And your arms were soft. And your hips were soft. And your thighs were soft. And your lips were mine.

And I became yours as a shadow cloaked us from foreign eyes.

 Lips by Nrd via Unsplash

Lights whirled around me. Your hair rained between my fingers.  I grazed your cheeks with my burning thumbs and how small my face felt in the hollow of your hands. A kiss – and the world vanished. There were no tears, no pain, no hollowness of a heart broken from having loved too much and been loved so little; there was no bitterness, no anxiety, no sudden fear rushing like a blush; no jealousy nor anger there was – but you. I could taste your perfume, I could smell the blinking of your eyes. In my fingers a tingle spread that became a swell of fire engulfing the whole of my body and soul – in you.

This second that lasted longer than a lifetime, this second that could have lasted more days and more nights, this second was ours. I felt you. I sensed you. For a spark of life, I knew you – like a man at night who sees the light of day when thunder strikes around his yard. Swiftly we moved, like shadows of love along the corridors, to the hidden room. All was dark, the music seeped through the walls as we moved on the bed – it was large, I recall, and it faced the doleful Parisian skyline. Our pupils, dilated; our hearts, beaming; our bodies, dripping with sweat as we kissed and we bit and we scratched and professed our love in all the languages of the Earth until there were none left but moans of sheer ecstasy.

 Crevices by Ramez E. Nassif via Unsplash

Until our bodies became one in a savage union of love and lust.

Who is Cultus Artem Poeticus? Who is that avid creature painted by the art of Holly Tupper? Dirty, raw, disturbingly honest – bite, roar and touch. Unsettling opening of raunchy cumin and acrid blackcurrant,  ultus Artem Poeticus has nothing to hide. A colossus of animality,  Cultus Artem Poeticus entices and ensnares for it smells of love – of love when it has drunk and smoked and danced and kissed and talked and sung and prayed to gods old and new. Yet after some time, the dirtiness dies and introduces a delicate heart of Osmanthus – delicate. It is mauve and blue like a skin of ebony grazed by moonlight. It shines or rather breathes as of a person fallen into sleep, it unfolds through the warmth of a faux-fur blanket, a base of Iris and butter, deeply milky with hints of caramel.

Woman by a Window by Maru Lombardo via Unsplash

One is left only with faded memories once the perfume disappears. The lover has disappeared through the door ajar but there lies a scent still in the bed like a mist of Tobacco. Cultus Artemis Poeticus evolves slowly and never quite surrenders. It is a true marvel of niche-perfumery in that it paints a compelling picture without turning away from beauty. True art shies not away from the truth and cares not for candour. Nor does Holly Tupper and her Poeticus.

Unsettling by the true and vivid image it conjures in the blink of an eye,  Cultus Artem Poeticus is the shared memory of such unforgettable nights, no matter how fleeting they may be.

Disclaimer – This review was based on a bottle provided by Cultus Artem. All opinions are my own.

– Alexandre Helwani, Contributor

photo by Alexandre

Thanks to the generosity of Holly Tupper we have a draw for 8.5 ml ($255.00) of Cultus Artem Poeticus for one registered reader in USA ONLY. You must register here or your comment will not count. To be eligible, please leave a comment saying what you enjoyed most about Alexandre’s review of Poeticus. Draw closes 2/19/2020

Editor’s Note : Cultus Artem is an all natural perfume house and is available online and at Bergdorf  Goodman

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