- makeswordswork
The Muses / Sock and Buskin
Updated: Jun 11, 2021

I shall tell you of the best of times,
of the worst of times
Imagine if you will, a play;
a tragicomedy of two waif-like, wraith-like girls,
socked and buskin-booted
before the footlights
Cast them in your mind’s eye stage
Imagine the pathos
of threadbare war-time lunatics, underwear on the outside
Delight in the pantomime
of sickly orphaned children
dressing in mothers' proverbial heels
and staggering like newborn fawns
We’ll call them Melpomene and Thalia
Imagine if you will,
when the scene is set
and normal rules need not apply
These girls with pigtails and school ties
a not-so-distant memory, lost in their infinite playtime
Wendy House world,
giggling like infants playing dress-up
Holding fast to a daily diet of cigarettes, amphetamines
and hairbrush-singing to Duran Duran
And the party doesn’t stop
when the electric meter puts paid to play,
candles and guitars emerge,
learning lines as dusty cupboard understudies
Watch them, tongues protruding
in earnest concentration,
trying on the ill-fitting masks of adulthood
Look in through the stage set window,
past hand-stitched tie-dye curtains
See squadrons of freshly-baked scones,
perpetual pots of tea
and the white bunny painted on the backdrop
of this cosy idyll
Marvel at the weird and wonderful array
of bohemian supporting roles
when they parade on stage,
the powder patently obvious
These dandies and fops,
all dressed up and nowhere to go,
leaving gossip and scandal in their wake
Get drawn into the minutiae microcosm
of this classic character study,
acted ad infinitum
Melpomene and Thalia are played method
Even when the curtain falls
and audience exit
Laugh out loud with glee
as they call in falsetto sing-song
for the cat that never treads the boards
But sit up straight
and feel that gut-slug face-slap
when they destroy your trust
and destroy the set
Do you have a sympathetic lump in your throat?
Do you lay it at the door of childish indulgence
or rock star tropes?
And what of the twist in this tale?
It’s all trips down Nostalgia Lane’s good old days
Happy, frolicking lambs
until it’s time for their slaughter
You no longer know whether to laugh or cry
The cues have gone
and the props disappear
and you’re left with a bad taste
in the back of your mouth
as you learn that Melpomene became the muse of death,
holding a knife
Writing by JULI WATSON
Artwork 'The Two Waifs’ by SIMON MILLS