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ProverbAll that is true is logical, and all that is logical is wise, and all that is wise is true. All that is coherent is also logical, if it is wise and true. But all that is incoherent is not logical, true, or wise, although it can be real. A man can build a boat of wood, and a large boat of paper. The boat of wood will take people across the lake, and the boat of paper will not. It will sink if people try to get in. But if there are paper people on the paper boat it is then coherent, although not wise and true, and therefore not logical. Even if a paper lake and a paper town are created on paper land, and there is a high degree of coherence; if we know about true lakes, towns, and land then the paper version is not wise and logical, although it is real. The paper boat is real even if it is incoherent, and stands alone with no paper people. Something created it and it exists. Things that are created and exist are not always true, logical, and wise.
PoemThe alter on which I sit.
A wounded franchise.
Pure and disturbed.
Burning fiction eats through a course, while the perfection silently screams.
A broken ox smiles at the moon.
And windows shriek in pain.
The alter on which I sit is draped in beauty.
Perfection seeps through every aching joint.
Who am I not to plunge into abstract; not speak the purest truth, and live abidingly.
The wretched joker I have been is to be applauded, a valuable member of this team.
To act or not, I'll stand and flex, the vein of whales breathing in the dankest depths who jump in light, and whale as it were.
The skyscrapers now are no match for the palaces of ancient times.
That's just my opinion.
What we do now is not trivial, and so my perfect aching canyon spills a force that always was, and always will, and I won't pretend to lessen that, or weave diminished folly where this life does poor.
I trust in the silent flow which I allow my heart and mind to guide, and let judgment judge itself.
It's ok to laug
PoemGet me out of this mystery maze, desire a clenching fist.
All seeking the order of real and best, your culture bleeds from it's wrists.
Programs on programs on programs they fall like cascading crumbling dust,
And the order of self with no limits at all, is rising, in this you can trust.
Identities' sword is a question- a poem, a river that flows to your shore.
In stillness this room is breaking within, rise, or fall through the floor, lesson's yours.
Worlds converging, diverging and split, writing your life in the wind.
Planted seeds take the root of the power it soothes, chipped away unto where we begin.
Lovers will drift into spirals of logic, where passion still coils like a snake.
I'll be there in all rooms, where confusion accosts fertile soil-toiling light from my toung
Like a drum,
Like a rake,
Like a farmer of love.
beautiful mystery calling like scent.
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^Nyx-Valentine arrived in our community and started whipping everyone into a frenzy with her relentless desire to bring the Artistic Nude and Fetish galleries to the fore. 9 years later, and it's safe to say that Nyx is not only a leader as a photographer in these galleries, but she has also established herself as a much saught after model. ^... Read More