Thick Incense Sticks with Holder

Nha Trang Agarwood​
A coastal ghost story told in smoke.

These thick sticks don’t just burn—they confess. Resin salvaged from fishing boats that weathered American typhoons, ground with oyster shells and monsoon-soaked frangipani. The first puff tastes like salt crusting on a dawn-caught mackerel; the last, like camphor trees regrowing over bomb craters. Comes with a holder forged from Saigon scrap metal—rough edges left intact to snag memories.

Australian Sandalwood​
Joy, stolen from holy sawdust.

Monks once called this wood “zhān tán”—not for its solo scent (too sharp, like a butcher’s blade), but for what happens when you cage its bitterness with clove and tamarind pulp. Now it smolders like a beggar’s smile: sweet decay cut with kampot pepper. The holder? Carved from a Melbourne church pew abandoned during the gold rush.

Lemon Grass​
*A slap of sunlight, bottled.**​

Crush the stick and your thumb comes back sticky with phantom citrus. These aren’t citronella candles for suburban patios—this is the lemon grass that grows wild along minefields, blades sharp enough to draw blood. Bugs flee its smoke; poets chase it. Holder included: a bullet casing hammered flat by Da Nang blacksmiths.

Cedar​
*Forest lungs, transplanted.**​

Cut from trees that watched samurai march, this cedar doesn’t “purify”—it accuses. The smoke stings like a Shinto priest’s censer swung too close. Comes with a holder whittled from Hiroshima debris—charred, twisted, sprouting lichen.

Palo Santo​
Holy wood, heretic executioner.

The sticks crackle like witch bones in flame. South American shamans sold us logs termites had turned to lace. Burn one during divorce proceedings; watch the smoke strangle lies. Holder: a rusted crucifix smuggled out of La Paz in a coffin.

White Sage​
Purification? No. Revenge.

Grind reservation sage with bourbon-barrel ash. Light it when the in-laws visit. The smoke smells like stolen land returning the favor. Holder: a scalpels-melted-into-wind-chimes atrocity.

Sauvage​
The meadow after the massacre.

We buried rye grass seeds in Namib desert sand for ten years before harvest. Now it burns like a cheetah’s last sprint—muscle, dust, adrenaline. Holder: a landmine fragment polished smooth.

Tuberose​
Midnight adultery in bloom.

These flowers only release scent when pollinated by corpse moths. We harvest at 3 AM with machetes. The smoke clings like lipstick on a wedding ring. Holder: a broken Rolex filled with monsoon mud.

Ocean​
Not sea breeze. Drowned sailors.

Salt scraped from Chennai shipwrecks, blended with jellyfish venom. Burn during monsoons; the room becomes a captain’s quarters sinking. Holder: a life preserver rope knotted by widows.

Coffee​
Dessert shop arson.

Vanilla beans smuggled in diplomatic pouches, coffee grounds stolen from Caracas protest campfires. Smells like gentrification burning. Holder: a Starbucks cup melted into Dalí-esque horror.

Earth​
Not soil. Graveyard breath.

Mud from Cambodia’s killing fields, baked with Tibetan funeral pyre ash. The smoke doesn’t “calm”—it interrogates. Holder: a shovel blade that unearthed mass graves.

Wine​
Vineyard venoms.

Grapes fermented in Chernobyl-adjacent cellars. The smoke reeks of oligarchs’ lies and pickers’ blistered hands. Holder: a broken decanter stabbed into a sommelier’s handbook.

Peach Oolong​
*Imperialist tea party crash.**​

Oolong leaves trampled by Opium War boots, peaches pickled in British gunpowder residue. Smells like stolen heritage simmering. Holder: a bayonet bent into a teaspoon.

Black Tea​
*Not your grandma’s cuppa.**​

Bergamot oil cut with Afghan opium resin, musk from Mumbai sweat shop rags. The smoke coils like colonial guilt. Holder: a tax collector’s ledger pages rolled into a cone.