Was it you, Sister that I saw on the other side of night?
the scorched fabric of your dresses were so far ahead I couldn’t tell 
but a trail of smoky amber perfume told me it was you
I saw pin prick droplets of Dragon’s Blood and followed your footprints for a while

and I heard haunting vocals
they brought comfort to me in that strange place
like the scent of myrrh from your curls
is it true that honey is the gift most prized by immortals?
I remember when your perfume Secret, Sacred, Cyphered was worn by the most stylish of vampires
Like Lucy‘s Clarimonde 
and her closest friends
my bottle is empty now except for the silky lining of scent inside
I open it sometimes and breathe in your dear memory

Scent By Alexis Purchase Here

Monica Miller 2014



she means to love you
she is sharpening her claws for just such an occasion
I hope you don’t mind
it shouldn’t hurt too much
and her soft fur and warm purr will make up for the painful beginning
she smells of jasmine
warmed in honey
mixed with morning dew from the orange tree
she walked all over the sandalwood and dipped her tail in the vanilla perfume
so she smells of that too
you know you want her
and you’ll put up with a little discomfort
she’ll retract her claws eventually 

Monica Miller 2014

honey velvet and sweet pea

What we are wearing: Honey Perfume by Velvet & Sweet Pea’s Purrfumery, PerfumerLaurie Stern, Poetry Muse: The Purrfumery’s own Kitty Buttercup.

perfume tinctures



china doll

Watch how her eyes opaque and her throat swallows  

with your flippant words

did you really mean to insult her?

we will never know the complexities of  human mind


“that’s funny that you would say that, and to me”

and she turns her face away


what do we see

a tattooed woman

a china doll

a mama’s princess

a hearts delight


what happened to her?

I can tell you what her skin feels like now

(creamy soft),

and her hands hold with strength

her eyes flash bright and fierce

do you think you know her?

by what do you judge her?





2014-10-05 15.23.07

The garden does not lend itself to books

preferring instead the direct revelation of nature

a crumb of soil has more intelligence

than a thousand pages