Lead Singer's Haircut

While on a library dig, the team
unearths, unexpectedly, ream after ream
of things called 'poems'. Stumpy wedges
of writing that serve no practice use.
Excited as mice, the expedition dredges
up more of the stuff. It must have a purpose.
Probably primitive leisure. Let's juice
it for clues. Send back the sherpers.

A doctor studies these scraps of strange text
late into the night, and finds himself vexed.
Much is missing. Here: an element of myth,
some questions, abstract nouns, Greek masque.
There are jokes, and voices to tell them with -
many remind him of speeches by Hamlet.
But where, he must ask - it's his job to ask -
where is the lead singer's haircut?

There are raspberry canes and robins, women
who dance with urns and forget nothing.
There's a sigh, and a stain that reeks of truth,
and men often wander through copses, valleys,
but where is the troubled, rain-raked sleuth
sloping through bars, his stomach a slipknot?
Where is the murderer prowling the alleys?
Where is the lead singer's haircut?

Where is that hook, that reliable staple?
The constant thread running through that people
inevitably fall for? The A-List name,
the hotshot striker or copyrighted logo,
the Force, the Fonz, the shaky claim
to eternal fame. The doc needs input.
He sends for a pair of artists. "You two;
where is the lead singer's haircut?"

The artists rummage. They umm and arr.
They visit the theatre, the brothel, the bar,
and sometimes they even deign to study,
but nothing. No solution emerges,
and the process becomes uncomfortably bloody
when one of them drowns himself. "Aw, fuck it,"
the doctor sighs as the other one purges
his soul of a lead singer's haircut.

They must be spells or voodoo, gris-gris,
something occultish. He feels uneasy,
not he really believes in curses,
but it's clear these 'poems' are not entertaining
and can be intended for no other purpose.
Tomorrow he'll throw them all into a box, and
ship them to London, relax for an evening.
Whack on a favourite pop band.

But can he forget such a puzzle? A rare bit
of trouble, indeed. Will he ever be dreaming
of incomplete circuits?