"giorgio" poems
He travels in scarlet,
A scarlet shirt for all the fears.
He would go around and smile at all of you,
He may shake your hand,
And hope the tremors beneath his skin are hidden from your dry palms.
For even though he looks you in the eye,
He is afraid, always, since whenever,
Frightened, petrified, secretly exuding panic.
But this little boy, the one in red,
Was brave enough to face all of you,
For touching you may mend,
That part inside his mind that chokes,
At every bit of human contact,
Ever since that first night of contamination,
When red had become bad on his sheets,
When a candle was lit, slowly,
And he was made to watch as it burns,
And feel, and see, and scream,
But as the flame, over the years, slowly fade,
Another creeping memory,
Edges long since frayed,
A battle raged inside him,
And he told me,
"I will fight,
For tommorow and hope,
For the sunrise and heat,
But of all things,
I will fight for that smile you'll give,
When you see me cured,
I will fight for that hug,
And all our nights."
I have our hope,
And I will wait and watch,
As he touches you and grin.
Dec 21, 2015
Dec 21, 2015 at 8:27 PM UTC
It started with the wide-leg Giorgio Armani pants
And it all went downhill from there.
They were so chic, and might improve her stance,
She could wear them to the market, hell, almost anywhere!
When she put them in her shopping cart
And continued to enter her credit card number,
A shot went right through her fashion-hungry heart
A jolt she still remembers!
It was the feeling of a new era
A new time in the lifespan of her wardrobe.
She would become a Prada-shopper, a vintage Chanel-wearer
No longer would she need to shuffle around her apartment in that awful bathrobe.
She'd strut down the street, sporting her Carolina Herrera.
A month later, a tingle slipped through her spine
As she donned a lapis Michael Kors
It was that sudden thought, "This dress is all mine!"
"It's mine now, so it isn't yours!"
From then on, it was her bank account that took the hardest hits
Money trickled through her Valentino-studded hands,
Down her Vera **** hips,
Came running down in thin, green strands.
Of course it all came falling apart when she saw the flawless Birkin bag,
Sitting there in the Hermes shop window
She knew it was the one thing she'd yet to snag!
However, there was just one thing she didn't know.
As she had the cashier ring it up,
Dropping another ten-grand
The cashier had her card snatched right up!
For this, Madame Fashion couldn't stand.
"Give it back!", she said, snapping her gold-dusted finger
"But dear you're overdrawn," said the snappy lady.
How she wanted to scream like soprano opera singer!
It was then that things got real shady.
In a lurch of madness, Madame jumped the counter!
The other shoppers were struck into awe and fear.
The cashier woman tried to stop her,
But Madame had just barely escaped, finally in the clear!
As she ran down fifth avenue, clutching her precious steal
A horrible revelation took over this felon,
She'd forgotten that she had wanted the purse in gorgeous teal!
Instead she had gotten melon.
Sep 23, 2011
Sep 23, 2011 at 3:55 AM UTC
Prompt: Persona superficially apologizes to his or her in-laws.
I’m sorry I’m not the same as you,
dressed to my best in Coco Channel, Ralph Lauren and Giorgio Armani.
I didn’t come from money, my baths were never in a porcelain tub,
my toilet was not made of gold.
I thought that my love for your son would be enough
to put my economic status in the past.
Yet, there is no disguising the thick line that is drawn between us,
the way the air congeals when we’re all in the same room.
I’m sorry that your eyes have been programmed to see me
for where I come from,
instead of who I have become.
It doesn’t matter to you that I have found a job worthwhile,
or that your son is not the sole provider.
You hate me anyway.
So this is my apology,
from the bottom of my heart.
Maybe someday those clouds will clear from your eyes
and you will notice that I am better for your son
than any of those stuck up *******
you call equals.
May 15, 2011
May 15, 2011 at 8:03 PM UTC
The suit is made by Giorgio, no, not Calvin Kline
a poetic impresario, every word, and every line
The briefcase Salvatore Ferragamo, filled with great prose and rhyme
bold, like John Wayne at the Alamo, when he, was in his prime
A Suited up stick figure, appearing to float, and climb
perusing the things he wrote, commending them, to time
Dec 16, 2016
Dec 16, 2016 at 1:25 PM UTC
Ghost
In my head
Shrieking around and pulling plugs
All my circuits
Run
So wild
I hear techno
Synthesized
And my eyes
Turn circles
Inside out
Ghost in my blood
Pulmonary pulling
My lungs
Breathing so wild
Beating my drums
All my circuits
Running wired
Dancing on Red Bulls
And I'm still tired
I'm so scared
Ghost in my head
Whispering anesthesia
Chanting sacred words
Hallucinations
Form apparitions
Under my bed
Ghost in my invitation
Boo I love you
But I'm better off dead
Ghost in my
Ghost in my blood
Shrieking in love
Running through walls
All my curses
Run
So wild
I hear techno
Giorgio Moroder
74 is the new 24
In my graveyard
Of pulley bones
Ghost in my
Ghost in my
Head
Shrieking in dimensions
Of dementia and demons
All my purposes
Run
So wild
I hear technologics
Advancing over
Common sense
Ghost in my
Ghost in my
Machine
My head
My misery
All my senses
Run
So wild
I hear energy
Making me tired
Shrieking invisible
Fires of miserable
Wires short circuiting
Ghost in my peripheries
On the edge of mysteries
Blowing in ghastly winds
All my fears
Run
So wild
I'll hear anything
Ghost in my ear
I hear techno
Glowing light sticks
Ghost
In my head
Whispering
I'd be better off dead
Jul 6, 2019
Jul 6, 2019 at 7:33 AM UTC
It started with our eyes.
Mine caught yours,
and yours caught mine.
It was friendly
and innocent--
just a quick little glance.
I could not help but hope
that one day
my eyes would catch yours again,
and this time,
they would be acquainted
and we could gaze.
After came our lips.
Mine turned up into a shy smile,
and yours could not help
but copy.
It was friendly and innocent--
just a quick little grin.
I could not help but hope
that one day
my lips would talk to yours again,
with their language, and ours,
and this time,
they would be acquainted
and we could beam.
Next was out ears.
At first, we heard each other,
mostly short phrases.
It was friendly and innocent--
just a quick little chat.
I could not help but hope
that one day
our ears would listen to our lips,
and this time,
they would be acquainted
and we could listen to each other’s stories.
Soon came our noses.
We did not know each other well,
and neither did our noses.
Mine could detect the scent
of Giorgio Armani on your skin,
and yours, a sweet vanilla perfume on mine.
It was friendly and innocent--
just a quick little observation.
I could not help but hope
that one day
our noses would know our scents,
and this time,
they would be acquainted
and a blindfold could not stop me from recognizing you.
It continued with our fingers.
Occasionally, they would linger
and sometimes intertwine.
It was friendly and innocent--
just a quick little connection.
I could not help but hope
that one day
our fingers would be closely clasp
and this time,
they would be acquainted
and our left hands would both wear a ring on out fourth finger.
It ended with our hearts.
They were old and worn out,
but still loving.
The doctors said yours was slowing down,
but you disagreed,
and told them to listen to it
when I was around.
It was friendly and innocent--
just a quick little heartbeat.
I could not help but hope
that one day
our hearts would connect again
and this time,
they would be acquainted
and mine would be still and soundless, along with yours.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 6:59 PM UTC
.
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Dior Michael K
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Karl Lagerfeld
Oscar de la Ren
ta JohnGalliano
JeanPaulGaultie
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outin GeoffreyB
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R a lph L au ren
Pierre Cardin Giorgio Armani
Zac Posen Phillip Lim Jason Wu Gianni
Versace Prabul Gurung Emanuel
Ungero Rick O w ens
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 10:57 AM UTC
Static crackling ecstatically; manic pop
Transistor hissing and spitting; sideboard atop
First when there’s nothing…
But a slow glowing dream…
Pirouette such as whirling dervish makes
Adolescent prancer twirls; leg warmer fakes
All alone I have cried…
Silent tears full of pride…
Breathless incantation; future forged in dance
Performance fascination; leap upon the chance
What a feeling...
Bein’s believing…
Neon flashes bedeck wrists and bonce
Peers laughter flash like fire; a ponce
Take your passion…
And make it happen…
The music shields, deflects. Antacid; taunts abate
Rhyhmic dreamer energized; blind to all the hate
Pictures come alive…
You can dance right through your life…
As Bergen-Belsen ghost yet still aware
Lost dreamer segues silently on fetid air
Bruised and battered, I couldn’t tell what I felt…
I am unrecognizable to myself…
Shuffling as garish Geisha; white but not with paint
Breathless as fifties bombshell; heaving sick and feint
At night I could hear the blood in my veins…
It was black and whispering as the rain…
With steel partner; straight firm and slim of hip
Rigid in rigor’d waltz; moving labouredly with drip
I walked the avenue, ‘til my legs felt like stone…
I heard the voices of friends, vanished and gone…
Faithless rusting engine combusts toxic blood
Failing sack of sinew lies where dancer stood
Night has fallen, I’m lyin’ awake…
I can feel myself fading away…
Monotone white noise; assuring beep
Dancer dreams in endless sleep
There was a time when men were kind…
There was a time when love was blind…
©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness – 2018 – All rights reserved)
Acknowledgements:
1. Flashdance… what a Feeling (1983 – Giorgio Moroder, Keith Forsey & Irene Cara)
2. The Streets of Philadelphia (1993 – Bruce Springsteen)
3. I Dreamed a Dream (Les Miserables – Claude Michel Schonberg, Herbert Kretzmer & Alain Boubil)
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
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Nov 11, 2018
Nov 11, 2018 at 2:32 AM UTC