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Strokes of oddness



Parviz Sadigh
May 29, 2006

Deathly smells from on above drift down to the peoples' noses,
Of burning flesh and blackened land stained with the blood of Moses,
As thou shalt not thou does do in this age of selfish reason,
Which sees us laugh and play in this our killing season.

With death planes flying overseas dropping their deadly gifts,
We water the soils of hate and envy and feed the machine of myths,
Which tells us to hate and loath with disgust, be scared and frightened
and treat with mistrust, in this our land of greed

Hammering away at the free thinking spirit who sees the monster beneath the mask,
The machine goes on in regimented order seducing the people to take its task,
To eat its food of wrongful bounty which it says is theirs by right,
But look beyond the sparkling stone and you will see its not worth the fight

As clouds of dust stained with death erupt in morning glory the sun
shines down as if to crown upon this sinful story,
And as the dust settles screams emerge through distorted figures who
blackened and burned wail in the morning air, and this is fair they say
to us but I can't stand this cunning fuss

Which distorts even the most logical of minds and delivers us into such
turbulent times, without a thought for what is right or what we might
become, outside of this march to that deathly drum, that sees us
fighting with each faction of anything other that what we are, as they
don't know it, but we do, that peace that way is just too far

Like a rolling ball through time life's black spots keep appearing with
each revolution there it flashes and then its gone under the rolling
ball but not for long as there it is once again rolling past our very
eyes, so is it really their sorry lies, or perhaps the spotted sphere is
what we should really fear,

For nothing can stop its onward journey or change its sullen path, so
why not sit back and laugh, at this theatre of corrupt destruction that
creates such a dark production, for us to see and act within but not to
change for that's a sin, as it is what it is the voices say but please
resist those lies I pray,

As we live on a canvas of evolving art on which we can paint with true
heart, so take up your brush and buy your paint and draw with wild
strokes of oddness, lines of love that stoke that fire of fondness, and
spread those flames amongst the land and fan them with you're breath and
pray to god that it takes the old order to its death. 

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The Pursuit of Pleasure
Drugs and Stimulants in Iranian History, 1500-1900
by Rudi Matthee

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