
In the favelas, siliconadas gyrate for his art
over sirens of baille-funk and gunshots.
Meanwhile, in the penthouses of Ipanema
rhinoplastic socialites wail for youth.
Their songs are the same: “I was born bald,
naked and without teeth. Everything else is profit.”
Staniforth, “Siliconadas: Ode to Ivo Pitanguy”, Harmonies (2023)
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