о, наконец видео
прямой линк для закачки:
http://plastickid.danhockey.dk/videos/lackvideo.mov
Модераторы: греческий огонь, no means no
-
japan boy (japan?)
- kick-ass s1nner
- Сообщения: 219
- Зарегистрирован: 28:03:2006 13:31:28
-
Antagonist
- luc1fer
- Сообщения: 1627
- Зарегистрирован: 19:04:2004 16:40:33
- Контактная информация:
Хорошая группа.
Мне нравится думать о них, как о последователях "Refused".
Мне нравится думать о них, как о последователях "Refused".
Последний раз редактировалось Antagonist 13:10:2006 19:27:53, всего редактировалось 1 раз.
-
под взглядом горгоны
- Ги
- Сообщения: 1096
- Зарегистрирован: 13:01:2006 01:51:43
-
Antagonist
- luc1fer
- Сообщения: 1627
- Зарегистрирован: 19:04:2004 16:40:33
- Контактная информация:
MARATHON MAN
Running, nothing but running, just running, nothing but running. We are the guards, we are the sentinels. We are the police, we are the bureaucrats. We are the workers so we are the replacables and exposables. Running, nothing but running, just running, nothing but running. A slight unease and a nervous smile make less than minimun wage for buffering between the upper and lower class. Not until we, who struggle for our petty privileges, stop chasing empty goals can we set our own pace. Running, nothing but running.
5 O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING
The firing squads are over, now here the meatwagon comes. Under a bright blue sky and a burning sun. Whatever power has been sought, again only death has won. Whichever tyrant lost his head, promise me that you will be careful. Careful to not fall in love with your enemies, for when you fight monsters it's at the risk of becoming one yourself. I saw two revolutionaries, wildest of the wild, one stood against the wall while the other pulled the trigger. As bullets ripped flesh apart one dream died as the other forgot. So these are the killing fields, where none are left alive, where we sleep to the sound of sharpening knives. Where massgraves are dug for the piles so high. Becoming fascist, becoming enemy.
PRIMO LEVI
The damage I've wrought, the death that I've bought, the pain I support, all makes a sordid mirth of my good intentions. For every 'yes' a thousand 'no's', for every dam I've tried to built there is a promise of flooding. And a memory of the ocean. I thought it for the best that I shouldn't give up and I still do think it for the best to never, ever give up. Hopelessly so, for every good reason just sounds like a bad excuse. O, I've grown weary of saying no, but friends it was all I've had. Only nails in flesh, nails in wood, a crown made of barbed wire. Still at the end of day all that remained was bitter shame of having survived by compromise while others died. Bitter shame. Once I thought it for the best that I shouldn't give up and I still do think it for the best to never, ever give up. If you choose the burden is it still a burden, even if it takes your life? The fool and the martyr are bred of the same soil. Who can tell us apart?
DESERTERS
On a scale from straight to gay, I guess I'm a perfect bi. All the bigots of this world can never make me deny just what I feel, when I see a great ass and a pair of shining eyes. If I believed in God, I'm sure I would have a seat in paradise for staying straight with myself. For God doesn't care who you love, as long as you love. And by the way, God only loves God so I will love how I choose to. If you tell me I’m just a heathen hedonist, I will tell you I think we’re not hedonist enough. Without desire we fill our lives with nothing. So much to win. So little to lose. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8, it goes on and on and 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8, our numbers grow. Look me in the eyes, tell me you don’t want it. My days of patience are over.
NEW AMERICAN CENTURY.ORG
Dead children should haunt your sleep. Dead children don't show in neat balancesheets, when they pay the price for wealth that does not trickle down. So down they all go and some names ring like curses. Economic miracles only smile upon an elite few. The lapdog's pops are to starve as well, a merciful reward for political support. All hail, all hail, all hail our would-be masters, we will feed their children while our own dig through the debris. Go, ride us like a mare. We can’t hide behind ignorance as the bombs we fund fall on your homes. No hail, no hail, no hail the Architects of Misery, who leave us here to count the dead, while they sleep wellfed in their safe beds.
SOOT, SMOKE & ASH
The world is open, the world is free, you could have been anything you wanted to be, seen every place you wanted to see. You needed not crawl and break your knee. Don’t break your knee. You could have stolen the key from Peter's hand and brought your tyrants down. It could have been beauty, not burdens and coils, the gallows and the bloody soils, the unmarked graves and sharpened knives, the prison cells and broken lives. You speak in moans and sighs and your towers collapse as you reach the sky. You have become death, destroyer of worlds, with no sanctuaries in your netherworld, where the churches and havens are monuments to fear. Monoliths of the doom in your heart and soul. So in the end, for there is an end, when you shudder and sigh, bent and broken, worn down and worn out, you will ask yourself: 'what have we gained?' Three words will answer you: soot, smoke and ash.
DISBURDEN
Those who have none will have even less, so those who have can take everything. Those who need suffer from the greed of the mouth that swallows more than it can eat. Those kicked from above will kick those below, those who slave the fields won't reap what they sow. Those who run will run faster yet, so gravediggers have much work ahead. I will witness rape closing tired eyes, I will speak half truths, my lies in disguise. I will forge the blade for the guillotine, be a bullet man who pour in the lead, I will plait the rope for the hangman?s noose, then scream 'I'm innocent' as I lose my head. A strong man, a strong hand, give me leaders or give me death. A strong man, a strong hand, give me leaders and give me death, grant me what little luxury I need to stay in line. I am tied to the ocean floor, a sinker of autonomy. Please someone come save me. Then I will swear to fight for my servitude like it was my salvation. Give me a man, a strong man, give me leaders or give me death. A strong hand, a strong man, give me leaders and give me death, grant what the little luxury I need to stay in line. Disburden, disburden, disburden, disburden.
SIMONIX
On this galley we work, our skin is salt and crust, and we work. On this galley we work, our muscles strain and hurt, yet we work. On this galley, where we work, our backs bend and break, yet we work. On this galley we don?t laugh or cry we just work. On this galley where we work, we don't dream or hope, we just work. We just work. We just work.
RITORNELLO
God has no favourites and blood is spilled today on holy lands. Parents lose their children, yet fail to understand why they're denounced as terrorists when they fall by a terrorist hand. They're dying again and I thik I saw nods of approval. ...and history repeats itself when we, the sons and daughters, haven't learned a thing from the logic of the death camps. Victim becomes the oppressor. Can't forget, so we repeat. Now there is a boy with a bomb under his shirt, where once was just a stone and a sling. But there?s a thousand rifles and a million thirsty bullets. They're dying again and I think I see nods of approval. ...and history repeats itself when the fuckers in power stay clear of the blood that taints their every want to remove the Unwanted. Can't forget, so we repeat.
If it?s sleep that you want, then sleep tight. Sweet dreams. Meanwhile the peace that we know is not the peace that they know. It's just silence before yet another storm. And a red sun rises. Listen! In the dawn of the wretched, the lonely sound of a promise: 'if they deny us our live, let's grant them our hell' By this we?re all dying again and again and again. Again.
THE GAY REVOLUTIONS
They can build golden cages for us all to live in. They can make us beds of silk, cover us in soft sheets so thin. They can dress us in a tender caress, comb our hair with care and lift us from the dirty soil. Soothe us with delicate oil. They can cook us tasty meals, sugar and salt. But cannot make our hunger for real freedom halt. Go ahead, build a wall to divide us, it won't keep us apart. Try to teach us biased history, we swear to never forget. Firm hands pour cups of hemlock, but can't force us to drink. They may control our space and time, but never how we think. Let every wasted seed of desire become a beautiful flower, watch it unfold hour by hour, rise higher and higher. We pay for our lives with our deaths, everything in between should be free.
Running, nothing but running, just running, nothing but running. We are the guards, we are the sentinels. We are the police, we are the bureaucrats. We are the workers so we are the replacables and exposables. Running, nothing but running, just running, nothing but running. A slight unease and a nervous smile make less than minimun wage for buffering between the upper and lower class. Not until we, who struggle for our petty privileges, stop chasing empty goals can we set our own pace. Running, nothing but running.
5 O'CLOCK IN THE EVENING
The firing squads are over, now here the meatwagon comes. Under a bright blue sky and a burning sun. Whatever power has been sought, again only death has won. Whichever tyrant lost his head, promise me that you will be careful. Careful to not fall in love with your enemies, for when you fight monsters it's at the risk of becoming one yourself. I saw two revolutionaries, wildest of the wild, one stood against the wall while the other pulled the trigger. As bullets ripped flesh apart one dream died as the other forgot. So these are the killing fields, where none are left alive, where we sleep to the sound of sharpening knives. Where massgraves are dug for the piles so high. Becoming fascist, becoming enemy.
PRIMO LEVI
The damage I've wrought, the death that I've bought, the pain I support, all makes a sordid mirth of my good intentions. For every 'yes' a thousand 'no's', for every dam I've tried to built there is a promise of flooding. And a memory of the ocean. I thought it for the best that I shouldn't give up and I still do think it for the best to never, ever give up. Hopelessly so, for every good reason just sounds like a bad excuse. O, I've grown weary of saying no, but friends it was all I've had. Only nails in flesh, nails in wood, a crown made of barbed wire. Still at the end of day all that remained was bitter shame of having survived by compromise while others died. Bitter shame. Once I thought it for the best that I shouldn't give up and I still do think it for the best to never, ever give up. If you choose the burden is it still a burden, even if it takes your life? The fool and the martyr are bred of the same soil. Who can tell us apart?
DESERTERS
On a scale from straight to gay, I guess I'm a perfect bi. All the bigots of this world can never make me deny just what I feel, when I see a great ass and a pair of shining eyes. If I believed in God, I'm sure I would have a seat in paradise for staying straight with myself. For God doesn't care who you love, as long as you love. And by the way, God only loves God so I will love how I choose to. If you tell me I’m just a heathen hedonist, I will tell you I think we’re not hedonist enough. Without desire we fill our lives with nothing. So much to win. So little to lose. 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8, it goes on and on and 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8, our numbers grow. Look me in the eyes, tell me you don’t want it. My days of patience are over.
NEW AMERICAN CENTURY.ORG
Dead children should haunt your sleep. Dead children don't show in neat balancesheets, when they pay the price for wealth that does not trickle down. So down they all go and some names ring like curses. Economic miracles only smile upon an elite few. The lapdog's pops are to starve as well, a merciful reward for political support. All hail, all hail, all hail our would-be masters, we will feed their children while our own dig through the debris. Go, ride us like a mare. We can’t hide behind ignorance as the bombs we fund fall on your homes. No hail, no hail, no hail the Architects of Misery, who leave us here to count the dead, while they sleep wellfed in their safe beds.
SOOT, SMOKE & ASH
The world is open, the world is free, you could have been anything you wanted to be, seen every place you wanted to see. You needed not crawl and break your knee. Don’t break your knee. You could have stolen the key from Peter's hand and brought your tyrants down. It could have been beauty, not burdens and coils, the gallows and the bloody soils, the unmarked graves and sharpened knives, the prison cells and broken lives. You speak in moans and sighs and your towers collapse as you reach the sky. You have become death, destroyer of worlds, with no sanctuaries in your netherworld, where the churches and havens are monuments to fear. Monoliths of the doom in your heart and soul. So in the end, for there is an end, when you shudder and sigh, bent and broken, worn down and worn out, you will ask yourself: 'what have we gained?' Three words will answer you: soot, smoke and ash.
DISBURDEN
Those who have none will have even less, so those who have can take everything. Those who need suffer from the greed of the mouth that swallows more than it can eat. Those kicked from above will kick those below, those who slave the fields won't reap what they sow. Those who run will run faster yet, so gravediggers have much work ahead. I will witness rape closing tired eyes, I will speak half truths, my lies in disguise. I will forge the blade for the guillotine, be a bullet man who pour in the lead, I will plait the rope for the hangman?s noose, then scream 'I'm innocent' as I lose my head. A strong man, a strong hand, give me leaders or give me death. A strong man, a strong hand, give me leaders and give me death, grant me what little luxury I need to stay in line. I am tied to the ocean floor, a sinker of autonomy. Please someone come save me. Then I will swear to fight for my servitude like it was my salvation. Give me a man, a strong man, give me leaders or give me death. A strong hand, a strong man, give me leaders and give me death, grant what the little luxury I need to stay in line. Disburden, disburden, disburden, disburden.
SIMONIX
On this galley we work, our skin is salt and crust, and we work. On this galley we work, our muscles strain and hurt, yet we work. On this galley, where we work, our backs bend and break, yet we work. On this galley we don?t laugh or cry we just work. On this galley where we work, we don't dream or hope, we just work. We just work. We just work.
RITORNELLO
God has no favourites and blood is spilled today on holy lands. Parents lose their children, yet fail to understand why they're denounced as terrorists when they fall by a terrorist hand. They're dying again and I thik I saw nods of approval. ...and history repeats itself when we, the sons and daughters, haven't learned a thing from the logic of the death camps. Victim becomes the oppressor. Can't forget, so we repeat. Now there is a boy with a bomb under his shirt, where once was just a stone and a sling. But there?s a thousand rifles and a million thirsty bullets. They're dying again and I think I see nods of approval. ...and history repeats itself when the fuckers in power stay clear of the blood that taints their every want to remove the Unwanted. Can't forget, so we repeat.
If it?s sleep that you want, then sleep tight. Sweet dreams. Meanwhile the peace that we know is not the peace that they know. It's just silence before yet another storm. And a red sun rises. Listen! In the dawn of the wretched, the lonely sound of a promise: 'if they deny us our live, let's grant them our hell' By this we?re all dying again and again and again. Again.
THE GAY REVOLUTIONS
They can build golden cages for us all to live in. They can make us beds of silk, cover us in soft sheets so thin. They can dress us in a tender caress, comb our hair with care and lift us from the dirty soil. Soothe us with delicate oil. They can cook us tasty meals, sugar and salt. But cannot make our hunger for real freedom halt. Go ahead, build a wall to divide us, it won't keep us apart. Try to teach us biased history, we swear to never forget. Firm hands pour cups of hemlock, but can't force us to drink. They may control our space and time, but never how we think. Let every wasted seed of desire become a beautiful flower, watch it unfold hour by hour, rise higher and higher. We pay for our lives with our deaths, everything in between should be free.
-
Antagonist
- luc1fer
- Сообщения: 1627
- Зарегистрирован: 19:04:2004 16:40:33
- Контактная информация:
-
Гость
Кстати:
Примо Леви (1919 — 1987) — итальянский писатель, поэт и публицист, химик по образованию. В двадцать четыре года он был депортирован в концлагерь. Знание немецкого языка, потребность нацистов в профессиональных химиках, пусть и еврейской национальности, молодость и, возможно, счастливая судьба помогли Леви выжить. Сразу после освобождения он написал книгу «Человек ли это?», считая своим долгом перед погибшими и непосвященными засвидетельствовать злодеяния фашистов. В западной послевоенной культуре П.Леви занимает не меньшее место, чем А.Солженицын в русской, а его самое значительное произведение «Человек ли это?» критика сравнивает с «Одним днем Ивана Денисовича». В Италии книга Примо Леви «Человек ли это?» была названа книгой века.
Покончил жизнь самоубийством.
p.s. Тот кто поставил эту песню в передачу "секс с анфисой чеховой" - полный моральный урод!
Примо Леви (1919 — 1987) — итальянский писатель, поэт и публицист, химик по образованию. В двадцать четыре года он был депортирован в концлагерь. Знание немецкого языка, потребность нацистов в профессиональных химиках, пусть и еврейской национальности, молодость и, возможно, счастливая судьба помогли Леви выжить. Сразу после освобождения он написал книгу «Человек ли это?», считая своим долгом перед погибшими и непосвященными засвидетельствовать злодеяния фашистов. В западной послевоенной культуре П.Леви занимает не меньшее место, чем А.Солженицын в русской, а его самое значительное произведение «Человек ли это?» критика сравнивает с «Одним днем Ивана Денисовича». В Италии книга Примо Леви «Человек ли это?» была названа книгой века.
Покончил жизнь самоубийством.
p.s. Тот кто поставил эту песню в передачу "секс с анфисой чеховой" - полный моральный урод!
-
~mishGunnn~
- luc1fer
- Сообщения: 3579
- Зарегистрирован: 31:03:2004 05:51:12
- Откуда: персональный ад
- Контактная информация:
