Walt Whitman - "A child said, What is the grass?"

A child said, What is the grass? fetching it to me with full
hands;
How could I answer the child?. . . .I do not know what it
is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful
green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropped,
Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we
may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child. . . .the produced babe
of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow
zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the
same, I receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them;
It may be you are from old people and from women, and
from offspring taken soon out of their mother's laps,
And here you are the mother's laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old
mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues!
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths
for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men
and women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring
taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
What do you think has become of the women and
children?

They are alive and well somewhere;
The smallest sprouts show there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait
at the end to arrest it,
And ceased the moment life appeared.

All goes onward and outward. . . .and nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and
luckier.

Chris Black - "Pass Away" (Jericho)

dark, with alt-violin?

everything you know will pass away
everything you know will pass away

wo-ho-ho-ho

Eric McFadden - "What's In My Head" (Let's die Forever... Together)

dark, swinging. nice.

Worldwide Groove Coorporation - "Angel Eyes" (Chillodesiac Lounge Fever vol 1)

slow, triphop, female vocals, nice.

Godspeed You! Black Emperor - "Rockets Fall On Rocket Falls"

True writing music.

Depeche Mode - "It's No Good (Andrea Parker Mix)"

Dry, ominous beats make the song heavy.

DJ T-Rock & Squashy Nice - "The Fugue" (Rock & Squash Techniques)

Parlando, hiphop, triphop, classical music.

Great song.

Edward Elgar - "Enigma Variations, For Orchestra, Op 36: Theme Andante" (Edgar Holst, the Planets)

This must be the song that inspired Rob D with his "Kurayamino, Clubbed to Death"

Short, but too similar to be a coincedence.

Modest Mouse - "Bukowski" (Good News For People Who Love Bad News)

Interesting song. Weird.

Well all that icing and all that cake
I can't make it to your wedding
But I'm sure I'll be at your wake
You were talk, talk, talk, talkin' in circles that day
When you get to the point
Make sure that I'm still awake, ok?

Went to bed and didn't see
Why every day turns out to be
A little bit more like Bukowski
And yeah, I know he's a pretty good read

But God who'd wanna be?
God who'd wanna be such an asshole?

Karuan - "Dunya" (Departure Lounge; Rhythms)

Lounge? Don't know. Soft beat, slow, melodic.

Ween - "The Argus" (Quebec (Explicit))

on the "Ween" channel, so not a strange choice, but the song is very un-Ween : slow, dreamlike. Not amazingly beautiful, but pretty amazing nonetheless.

Yesterday we lost our lives, tomorrow we were born
Fortune smiled upon us, sacrifice the Argus
All that he might help us see

Magna eyes the track for miles
Looking for disease
Puzzled by the mountains
Tricked by the sea

And the Argus is practiced compassion
With an eye on you, as one is on me
Will the god eye grant his forgiveness
And allow he that's lived a reason to see

Counting days and building walls, bells ring so to warn
All the signs that guide us, chosen by the Argus
Tell me he has chosen you

Led by form we’ll shed our soul
Trusting like a child
See the dark face that saved us
Drink from his empty eyes

And the Argus is practiced compassion
With an eye on you, as one is on me
Will the god eye grant his forgiveness
Letting droplets of light erupt from the sea

Lying in beds of garlic and orchids
He closes an eye, which closes another
And in sleep he dreams of watching and looking
And feather clouds dancing he curls up his lid and sleeps

Swirling with visions on man's confusion
All of the work done just to appease him
The Argus he cries, though love has it's place in the sun
It's only man's fear that carries him on