As Part of http://theweepingmanproject.tumblr.com/,
this track tells involved two characters living in the Weeping Man’s block of Flats.
The man in the Attic observes his neighbours and send the Woman -who lives above the weeping man- a paper plane with this letter inscribed on it…..
As Part of http://theweepingmanproject.tumblr.com/,
There is a ghost in my building
whenever i go to sleep
he starts to cry and weep
as soon as i clutch my teddy bear
i get quite scared
sometimes i wonder why the ghostman cries
maybe he was left behind by his ghost friends
i know i cry when i have no one to play with again
mummy says it is the man next door
but i think shes wrong
because i like the man next door
i see him sat on the street corners
singing songs and he seems nice when he smiles
sometimes i have to wait to hear the ghostman cry
sometimes he is loud, or sighs or sometimes you can barely hear him
just the drip drop of tears and his weeping, sobbing, shaking
maybe its because the nice lady
who used to live next to us
keft one morning in a rush
with my two friends i used to play with
but i dont know why a ghost would find that sad
sometimes the man next door looks at me funny
at schoool they say i should shout “stranger danger”
but the man next door is nice
He smiles a lot but sometimes he looks lost
so i wonder why the ghost cries
maybe i should ask the man next door
next time mummy takes me to town
ill see if he is around
sat down on the corner
with people giving him money
for playing around on the corner
or maybe i can see him at that store grandad
sometimes goes to, when i stay over
where he gets nasty smelling bottles of his happy drink
maybe i can ask him why the ghost cries
maybe i can ask, why he asks “why did you become my wife, why did you take everything from me?” but first i have to have a bath,
because its sunday and school isnt far away
so i think ill just sleep
and wonder why the ghostman weeps
gulliver’s comment : this could be from a boy or a girl, but i wrote the backstory of the boy and his mum so now he is a boy.
will organise a week day night workshop!!
I hear you weeping man.
You weep because you can
I doubt you’ve ever tired
To keep the tears inside
Crying like there is no tomorrow
You try an drown us in your sorrow
I hate you more each time
Your problems yours,
as mine are mine
You don’t have the right
To makes fight your fight
Don’t make your trouble last
Grow up! Put them in the past
Cowering from the stares of gargoyles
Who pray from the high haunts of the birds,
I step out.
Envision myself dancing in-between the raindrops
Spotlit by the shining lights of passing cars,
Kissed by the monoxide breezes.
Smiling ear to ear a wolf grin,
Hungry for meat and blood and lust.
The dark punches me.
In an oil soaked pool of pollution,
I catch sight of myself.
Gaunt - daunted by the blows of the night.
My granite gaze passes straight through me.
No ghoul or succubus has laid this curse on me,
I made myself a gargoyle.
My feet are proverbial clay,
My legs quick sand,
My face weathered limestone battered by erosion,
My sandstone heart is fast wearing away,
As my fault lines gape underneath.
Start again - deep breath,
Imagine my heart as a prism,
Reflecting and refracting that most
Precious substance, until a hurricane of colour
Radiates from my chest,
Blessing unknowingly all who pass by.
But the wind saps at my feet,
And doubt undermines my foundations.
My mind is monolithic, grey and unpolished
My prism heart cracked and useless.
As seismic shifts rip through my body,
I cannot bend, I can only break.
Instead of light bent to my will,
The distortion passes to my face,
Contorted screams choked down,
As I stand, agast.
Stuck fast, I stare,
Like a modern day Narcissus,
Who gets off on self-loathing in a condemned hotel room,
I shift my gaze away and look to the sky for salvation,
And catch the eye of my fellow monster.
I hear a laugh from a window and think I see
A man who seems to recognise me,
A man who weeps. But then he is gone.
And there is only my gargoyle guardian to keep me safe.
Time to go - deep breath,
(The woman or the room?)
Come on over and knock on my door,
I hope: inside is what you’re looking for.
I’ll coax you in if I am all alone
Then show off my waresto keep you long.
Feel the touch of my fabrics in your hand.
I’ll transport you into your magic dreamland:
Red velvet rugs,
scents of vanilla,
jasmine, and musk.
Marble tiled floors warmed underneath,
And the four poster bed with your secrets to keep.
The man living next door more secrets than you.
Don’t mind the sounds he makes,
it will help hide what you do.
So please have your way in this place,
He doesn’t come here any more.
Here is just a small price to enjoy yourself once more
There’s a Poet Starving in a Garret (Gulliver : “next to the squatter? or is it the squatter? it could as there is nothing contradicting here ?)
They say that there’s a poet in the attic,
Does that make it a garret?
A garret that’s bare and cold,
In a house that’s tired and old.
The poet never writes,
Just stares into the night,
Waiting for inspiration,
In silent desperation.
The poet is never seen,
Just living through a dream,
In that zone between wake and sleep,
He feels no hunger, never eats.
The poet listens to the house
An owl hoots in the drainpipe,
He hears rats in the roof,
An all night, all day
There is weeping, weeping, weeping…
Seems to only rain on my window alone,
An occasional water pater lets me know I’m home,
The domain my realm, which I aim to keep sacred,
I carved a little writers igloo inside of this basement,
Where I used to write songs, prose and poems,
Trying to find an answer to “where the fuck am I going?”
Although answers never yield pen to paper was carthartic
Cause all I ever wanted to be, was an artist,
Lately though all my mind seems cloudy
It’s like I crossed the river but only reached the boundary,
Frustrating, negating my negativity is taking,
My need to be positive and unite all my opposites
Trying to go from igloo straight up into monolith,
But it’s like I’m falling down into a see of propestrous
Nonsense, which swallows me whole
And washes me up on the shore with no boat
It’s scary to know writers block’s self induced,
That truth be told I’m my one and only muse,
With that being said I put my pen to rest,
Lay back, head down, feel the beat in my chest,
Let my mind roam and “what if’s” start climbing,
What if rain on window is tears of someone crying,
What if his crying is a rhythmic weeping,
Suddenly I can hear tears of sound through my ceiling,
Composing symphonies with an orchestra of feelings
Like a musical drug that he’s constantly needing
Through the day he’s exalted and through the night he does suffer,
Maybe it’s meditation to make himself tougher,
Full experience of all emotion
Constantly choking on what he’s provoking,
Chugging down his cerebral potion
He’s removed from society and totally open,
Sparks start flying into brain wave firing,
Mind’s eye shooting poetic bolts of lightening,
Inspiration from a most unlikely source,
The weeping man above who’s sobs hold no remorse,
Gotta rush the building, gotta find this guy,
Gotta complete the song about why he cries,
Raining knuckle knocking, on door up on vertical,
Open to confuse lab coat sniffing chemicals,
Wrong person, wrong door, wrong place, wrong time,
And underneath her glasses there’s a tear in her eye,
Curtain number two reveals mother and boy,
With mum watching son interpret white noise,
Weird shit going down all over this building,
Lets find out what another door is yielding
Solid oak door ratatat boom bap,
Answer to confuse bonjour I step back
Make my apologies while cursing internally,
I head up to the roof to scream externally,
To my left is crouched a man his gaze transfixed,
Eyes reflect the moon he blinks a lunar eclipse,
He said the moon is my muse I know cause I can see it,
Whereas what you’re chasing may just be another demon,
Stop chasing start facing, simple facts of life,
This protagonist you’re chasing was inspired by your mind.