Depresser - Dark Days in a Coloured World (File, MP3) download full album zip cd mp3 vinyl flac
Fire extinguisher? Even the local machine shop to which the boy nervously entrusted his most prized possession had had enough. But in the end, the mill was dead-on. Bad shops fall out quickly, but this place had the look of times gone by. Good times. Old porcelain signs, here and there were to be found, all original to the shop and revered by the older workers in honored nostalgia.
The younger workers get it too; they can tell from the men they respect and learn from, there is something special about this past. Not a bad deal for a good block that had never had its first 0. In the shop, it was cleaned, checked for cracks, measured and re-measured, inspected and re-inspected.
It was shaped and cut in a special way that would allow the stroker crankshaft, that was to be the special part of this build, to have all the clearance it would need. New bearings were installed everywhere bearings are required. Parts were smoothed here and there. After machining, the block was filled with new and strong parts that cost the young man everything he had. Parts selected with the greatest of effort, decision, and debate.
Right on. You get one shot at getting that right, and this proclamation demonstrated wisdom but also provided ample excuse for the rough and unfinished look of the rest of his machine. And its power plant? Well the machine shop had talked their customer into letting them do the final engine assembly - even cut their price to do it. They were looking out for the boy. It would MP3) adequate torque in the low RPM range to get whole rig moving quickly, yet deliver enough horsepower at red-line to pile on the MPH, fast.
No longer a polite-natured workhorse, this engine, this engine is impatient now. High compression, a rapid, choppy idle - it seems to be biting at the bit — to be released. On command, it gulps its mixture and screams angrily, and often those standing around have a reflexive jump - the louder, the better - the more angry, the better.
A cacophony? This is the addictive sound and feel that has appealed to a certain type of person since engines replaced horses, and why?
A surrogate voice for those who are otherwise quiet? A visceral celebration of accomplishment? Who cares. Shift once, then again - speed quickly makes its appearance.
It appears as a loud, rushing wind and a visually striking, unnatural view of the surrounding scenery. At some point, in the sane, it triggers a natural response - better slow down. The hood and front fenders a fiberglass clamshell, pinned affair. Dice hanging from the mirror paid homage to days its driver never knew, but wished he had.
He removed them before he drove, always. If you know how to peel the onion, secrets are revealed. Wilwood brake calipers can be a dead giveaway. Someone needs serious stopping power - maybe. Now, expensive calipers, as eye candy, are all the rage. Two things seem to be at play here. Something I had defacto permission to do since my rod was undergoing a similar scrutiny.
The chunks of aluminum posing as ordinary spacers under his two carburetors were anything but. Based on the overall vibe of the scene, and the clean work on display, I believed his build was up to the punishment he planned.
Pre-staged, staged, then given the green The line becomes blurred between man and machine Bones become linkage Muscle, spring Fear, excitement Time distorts …. Continue reading Andrew Rueter Jan Carl Sandburg. I WAS born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat, the red of its clover, the eyes of its women, gave me a song and a slogan. Here the water went down, the icebergs slid with gravel, the gaps and the valleys hissed, and the black loam came, and the yellow sandy loam.
Here between the sheds of the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians, here now a morning star fixes a fire sign over the timber claims and cow pastures, the corn belt, the cotton belt, the cattle ranches.
Here the gray geese go five hundred miles and back with a wind under their wings honking the cry for a new home. Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water. The prairie sings to me in the forenoon and I Depresser - Dark Days in a Coloured World (File in the night I rest easy in the prairie arms, on the prairie heart.
In the city among the walls the overland passenger train is choked and the pistons hiss and the wheels curse. On the prairie the overland flits on phantom wheels and the sky and the soil between them muffle the pistons and cheer the wheels. I am here when the cities are gone.
I am here before the cities come. I nourished the lonely men on horses. I will keep the laughing men who ride iron. I am dust of men. The running water babbled to the deer, the cottontail, the gopher. You came in wagons, making streets and schools, Kin of the ax and rifle, kin of the plow and horse, Singing Yankee Doodle, Old Dan Tucker, Turkey in the Straw, You in the coonskin cap at a log house door hearing a lone wolf howl, You at a sod house door reading the blizzards and chinooks let loose from Medicine Hat, I am dust of your dust, as I am brother and mother To the copper faces, the worker in flint and clay, The singing women and their sons a thousand years ago Marching single file the timber and the plain.
I hold the dust of these amid changing stars. I last while old wars are fought, while peace broods mother-like, While new wars arise and the fresh killings of young men. I fed the boys who went to France in great dark days. Appomattox is a beautiful word to me and so is Valley Forge and the Marne and Verdun, I who have seen the red births and the red deaths Of sons and daughters, I take peace or war, I say nothing and wait.
Have you seen a red sunset drip over one of my cornfields, the shore of night stars, the wave lines of dawn up a wheat valley? Have you heard my threshing crews yelling in the chaff of a strawpile and the running wheat of the wagonboards, my cornhuskers, my harvest hands hauling crops, singing dreams of women, worlds, horizons?.
Rivers cut a path on flat lands. The mountains stand up. Omaha and Kansas City, Minneapolis and St. Paul, sisters in a house together, throwing slang, growing up. Towns in the Ozarks, Dakota wheat towns, Wichita, Peoria, Buffalo, sisters throwing slang, growing up. Out of prairie-brown grass crossed with a streamer of wigwam smoke-out of a smoke pillar, a blue promise-out of wild ducks woven in greens and purples- Here I saw a city rise and say to the peoples round world: Listen, I am strong, I know what I want.
Out of log houses and stumps-canoes stripped from tree-sides-flatboats coaxed with an ax from the timber claims-in the years when the red and the white men met-the houses and streets rose. A thousand red men cried and went away to new places for corn and women: a million white men came and put up skyscrapers, threw out rails and wires, feelers to the salt sea: now the smokestacks bite the skyline with stub teeth.
In an early year the call of a wild duck woven in greens and purples: now the riveter's chatter, the police patrol, the song-whistle of the steamboat. To a man across a thousand years I offer a handshake. I say to him: Brother, make MP3) story short, for the stretch of a thousand years is short. What brothers these in the dark? What eaves of skyscrapers against a smoke moon?
A headlight searches a snowstorm. A funnel of white light shoots from over the pilot of the Pioneer Limited crossing Wisconsin. In the morning hours, in the dawn, The sun puts out the stars of the sky And the headlight of the Limited train.
The fireman waves his hand to a country school teacher on a bobsled. A boy, yellow hair, red scarf and mittens, on the bobsled, in his lunch box a pork chop sandwich and a V of gooseberry pie. The horses fathom a snow to their knees. Snow hats are on the rolling prairie hills.
The Mississippi bluffs wear snow hats., Depresser - Dark Days in a Coloured World (File. Hack them with cleavers. Hang them with hooks in the hind legs. A wagonload of radishes on a summer morning. The farmer on the seat dangles the reins on the rumps of dapple-gray horses. The farmer's daughter with a basket of eggs dreams of a new hat to wear to the county fair.
I am the prairie, mother of men, waiting. They are mine, the threshing crews eating beefsteak, the farmboys driving steers to the railroad cattle pens.
They are mine, the crowds of people at a Fourth of July basket picnic, listening to a lawyer read the Declaration of Independence, watching the pinwheels and Roman candles at night, the young men and women two by two hunting the bypaths and kissing bridges.
They are mine, the horses looking over a fence in the frost Depresser - Dark Days in a Coloured World (File late October saying good-morning to the horses hauling wagons of rutabaga to market. They are mine, the old zigzag rail fences, the new barb wire.
The cornhuskers wear leather on their hands. There is no let-up to the wind. Blue bandannas are knotted at the ruddy chins. Falltime and winter apples take on the smolder of the five-o'clock November sunset: falltime, leaves, bonfires, stubble, the old things go, and the earth is grizzled. The land and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches-among gravestone writings rubbed out by the rain-they keep old things that never grow old.
The frost loosens corn husks. The men and women are helpers. They are all cornhuskers together. Look at six eggs In a mockingbird's nest. Listen to six mockingbirds Flinging follies of O-be-joyful Over the marshes and uplands.
Look at songs Hidden in eggs. When the morning sun is on the trumpet-vine blossoms, sing at the kitchen pans: Shout All Over God's Heaven. When the rain slants on the potato hills and the sun plays a silver shaft on the last shower, sing to the bush at the backyard fence: Mighty Lak a Rose.
Spring slips back with a girl face calling always: "Any new songs for me? Any new songs? O prairie girl, whoever leaves you only crimson poppies to talk with, whoever puts a good-by kiss on your lips and never comes back- There is a song deep as the falltime redhaws, long as the layer of black loam we go to, the shine of the morning star over the corn belt, the wave line of dawn up a wheat valley. O prairie mother, I am one of your boys. I have loved the prairie as a man with a heart shot full of pain over love.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water. I speak of new cities and new people. I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes. Jonny Angel Apr Basketball In A Combat Zone. It was the Chicago Bulls vs. Basketball seemed more important than this War on Terror. That was just another time that the ludicrousy or fruitlessness of our mission seemed apparent.
Bryce Jul Where are my shores. Amid the verbose magicians Seeking kinships And sailing deep into their arduous mists Watching them peddle their afternoon To a handful of smiling children holding their breath Amazed in gentle body trick The older men of age Leaning deep into their creased chins Stroking the grizzled fat Blinding light of soul Staring down the barrel of life Striking the enemy one last time And yet smiling sober, Met of match, taking care of their kids.
Then there's the cold-clocked dudes On the phone pushing buttons In a button-up raglan Lost indistinct the promised land The golden shores swept away by inconvenient time Left shopping in an auto mall "Won't you look at the time? And Steve maddened and screamed As the lines blurred instinctual between opposing teams And the oven dinged a great alabaster slant Leaning towards the new millenitants Rise up! Martin Narrod Apr Day Lights. Ugly irrefutable contagion-handed howlers. Angry mischievous heathens that pantomime on a.
Semi-colons I won't! My rubber-bottomed leather boots lash out, heavy scraping sounds trail this mirrored shadow half an angle behind me. Blonde framed sunglasses from American Apparel, a gift from my sister in a folded Ray-Ban case is scattered on last nights bedroom floor, my girlfriend has certainly not noticed, the gloom-coated morning sun spray has not noticed; but I have unzipped a fissure in the ocular lens. My heart skips a beat.
Her bedroom might as well have swallowed them whole. Now the house can halt and have the shade, swaying in Spring air in a. The aviator himself Howard Hughes would strike me with his aircraft. Edwin Starr in his invincible sinister calypso of War would turn me round. I was sturdy as a rock until I began to forget my forgottens. These unknown unknowns I knew I needed.
I'm over a quarter-century on to noon going nowhere- and quite blindly. But then, still she could stand upright and find me. Her neck crooked, looking onward through the East, the gristly roots of rhubarb buried in her searching fingernails.
She's threaded worse, and of course if I could just tell her- this is the kind of nursing which requires acute temperament and flexibility. I am thus on a journey to strike nonsense and fear from the idiotic vocabulary that put this nonsense in my head. Split through me like a butter knife into my apotropaic. Perhaps tar water could cure my ails.
If not, certainly a sliver of vanilla would set me straight. Or if could just rain rain rain all day, then I'd make do without, but she is at school. My pistons are racked and nervous, and I'm not going anywhere but my rucksack stoop.
I am camped in midwestern Spring soup. Fog, rain, and shade. The nightmare of day. Don Bouchard Jun Early, Earlier War: Battling Farmers. Art Bouchard, My father, Never marched a drill, Nor fired an angry shot Recounted fond memories I've heard so many times: How long ago, when I was very young, He and our neighbor, Art Pribnow, Up before the sun, Engaged in tractor battles Dad was very sure he won. My father woke those mornings, Early s, With the popping cough of Worn diesel pistons Clattering out white smoke Then blue and black, As engine heat and friction Tightened gaps, Sealed compression, And the motor steadied into an even roar.
Across the county road Our only neighbor led or followed suit, Sending smoke and sound To drown the morning songs of meadowlarks and robins. Fifty years later, Dad laughed in recollection, "We started rising just a little Earlier each day. Started up our tractors In a sort of game Called, 'Who's out first? One tractor or the other roared, Early and then earlier To be the first to pull Into the waiting fields.
When three-thirty came around My mother shook her head, But if she said a word, I never heard. These battling neighbors Even started engines up Before they ran, Milking buckets swinging, to their barns to chore As early became earlier in the little farmers' war.
One day in town, By happenstance, A meeting came between the two. My father, being younger, Had energy for more, But old Art Pribnow shook his head, Grabbed my dad's hand and said, "Let's stop this foolishness Before one of us is dead! I don't know about the hours you keep, Or what got in our heads, But I admit, I need my sleep!
I remember with a smiling sadness this story told by my father, now gone two years, about a little "friendly war" he and our neighbor, Art Pribnow, engaged in during spring planting time. The year would have been around orwhen I was just a baby.
The story still makes me smile. I hope you enjoy it. Sylvia Plath. They enter as animals from the outer Space of holly where spikes Are not thoughts I turn on, like a Yogi, But greenness, darkness so pure They freeze and are.
O God, I am not like you In your vacuous black, Stars stuck all over, bright stupid confetti. Eternity bores me, I never wanted it. What I love is The piston in motion My soul dies before it. And the hooves of the horses, There merciless churn. And you, great Stasis What is so great in that! Is it a tiger this year, this roar at the door? It is a Christus, The awful God-bit in him Dying to fly and be done with it?
The blood berries are themselves, they are very still. The hooves will not have it, In blue distance the pistons hiss.
Smoke and Steel. Smoke of a steel-mill roof or a battleship funnel, They all go up in a line with a smokestack, Or they twist If the north wind comes they run to the south. If the west wind comes they run to the east. Smoke of the fields in spring and leaves in autumn, Smoke of the finished steel, chilled and blue, By the oath of work they swear: "I know you. This, said the bar-iron shed to the blooming mill, This is the slang of coal and steel.
The day-gang hands it to the night-gang, The night-gang hands it back. Stammer at the slang of this- Let us understand half of it. A bar of steel-it is only Smoke at the heart of it, smoke and the blood of a man. A runner of fire ran in it, ran out, ran somewhere else, And left-smoke and the blood of a man And the finished steel, chilled and blue.
Pittsburg, Youngstown, Gary-they make their steel with men. In the blood of men and the ink of chimneys The smoke nights write their oaths: Smoke into steel and blood into steel; Homestead, Braddock, Birmingham, they make their steel with men. Smoke and blood is the mix of steel. Steel barb-wire around The Works. Steel guns in the holsters of the guards at the gates of The Works. Steel ore-boats bring the loads clawed from the earth by steel, lifted and lugged by arms of steel, sung on its way by the clanking clam-shells.
The runners now, the handlers now, are steel; they dig and clutch and haul; they hoist their automatic knuckles from job to job; they are steel making steel.
Fire and dust and air fight in the furnaces; the pour is timed, the billets wriggle; the clinkers are dumped: Liners on the sea, skyscrapers on the land; diving steel in the sea, climbing steel in the sky. Finders in the dark, you Steve with a dinner bucket, you Steve clumping in the dusk on the sidewalks with an evening paper for the woman and kids, you Steve with your head wondering where we all end up- Finders in the dark, Steve: I hook my arm in cinder sleeves; we go down the street together; it is all the same to us; you Steve and the rest of us end on the same stars; we all wear a hat in hell together, in hell or heaven.
Smoke nights now, Steve. Smoke, smoke, lost in the sieves of yesterday; Dumped again to the scoops and hooks today. Smoke like the clocks and whistles, always. Smoke nights now. To-morrow something else.
Look for them in the woven frame of a wireless station. So ghosts hide in steel like heavy-armed men in mirrors.
Peepers, skulkers-they shadow-dance in laughing tombs. They are always there and they never answer. One of them said: "I like my job, the company is good to me, America is a wonderful country. Look for them back of a steel vault door. They laugh at the cost. They lift the birdmen into the blue. Also, you may follow [ this ] thread that I've started with UL. Active Oldest Votes. Sign up or log in Sign up using Google. Sign up using Facebook.
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