Fat Arsed Richard Gere

Fat Arsed Richard Gere

Fat arsed Richard Gere
Eats noodles
Strictly buddhist
And strictly ballroom
In penguin suit tails
Expensively flailing
To hide his nether expanse
It’s a bottom heavy profession
And the trouble with
The modern film genre
Is that I can’t bring myself
To identify with american people
Or care much what might
Happen to them in fictional situations
But fat arsed Richard Gere
Desperately running through
His asanas
While a thousand disembodied voices
Yell Bimbo!
So out he flees
In a small green Italian car
California’s a hot, bright country
Full of mallquakes
And sudden portents
The highways are made
Of concrete slabs
And on hot concrete tyres
Rumble with wee squealy noises
Like pigs
Accepting a bribe
Gracelessly
Which in Richard’s case
Constitutes heavy irony
Pulling his way
Into the Zellers carpark
For half a dozen guilty doughnuts
And a little light shopping
And back in the bourgemobile
Fat arsed Richard Gere
Unwrapping dozens of Cindy dolls
One by one
And lining up their little blouses
All along the walnut dashboard
While considering liposuction
Another dark and compulsive
Little cat-and-mouse game
With the paparazzi
And on to the studio
A giant shiny perspex cube
In which California abounds
Adolescent in the daylight
Striding through the foyer
A man with no name-tag
In an empirical universe
Herded by smart and skinny assistants
Into the Eco-studio
Fat arsed Richard Gere
Lectures about rainforests
While Sting and Peter Gabriel
Beckon from beyond the grave
Earnest and blinking
Under the arc lights
Sincere and toothy
While behind him
His fat arse
Has its own agenda
Hidden from public view
And growing inexorably
Will the real Richard please stand up
Or is it Dick
Let us not confuse the icon
With the hominid behind it
The tanned and shallow face
With the arse in the shadows
But what of the roles between roles
When Richard leaves the studio
Or when we are alone and only
What lies between the gaps
Of our private roles
Some quintessential being?
Or as the buddhists say
Just the wind whistling
Between the trees
Sounding like the plaintive calls
Of living things
And fat arsed Richard Gere
Strives for non-being.