The Headshrinkers band

Through blue-tinted shades
we watch them
dancing or standing sipping beer
liquid-eyed, in gangs
a tussled pair sealing lips.

You see the same faces again and again.
Some are coming from work;
the shadows of it stain their skin.

Fisting the mic I hiss and boom:
I fell asleep in the temple
and snakes licked my ears;
in dreams I am pecked clean by birds.

Tonight they study us like waxworks.
I invite them to lie on the couch.
Stretching off into the distance
the eventless present.
Mick pumps the wah-wah pedal.

It’s a drag hefting the kit gig to gig. 
Squatting by the kerb three hard-hats 
heads bowed in mute communion
with their phones. Nothing to say
these chilly summer days
what we’re doing when living.

Chips and diesel on the wind
the pinkly lit street
has blossomed with youths.
Good evening
we are The Headshrinkers.

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Twitter: @ianjmclachlan
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