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Precious Cargo

ADULT CONTENT - Poetry. Copyright © All Rights Reserved. Wolf Sherman. No part of this book / poetry bundle - may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronically, electrostatic magnetic tape or mechanically; including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author. Although this is a fictional work, some locations, organisations and events are factual. The characters and times in the storyline are fictional - therefore, all resemblances to actual people present or past are purely coincidental.


Just when things fell apart I found a muse. Not that my muse had a say in it. Understand that not everyone needs sex to function at an optimal level, but like or not, if at the outset, if a relationship is based on healthy frequent intimate moments - and this wanes... Someone once put it crudely. "Life is much like poker. If you don't have a good partner, you'd better have a good hand." But that's too simple and I always feel that we're too complicated life forms to be reduced to a single page front-and-back printed questionnaire about relationship rules.

So this updated version; for March 2019, is for my muse. Thank you keeping me sane-ish. Isn't it the most alien of things to think that the healing effect derived from pills and psychology can be replaced by poetry and mediation?

Contains adult content. A collection of poems on romance and erotica.

"Romance (love), love based on emotional attachment as portrayed as ideal in chivalric romance literature.

Erotica is any artistic work that deals substantively with subject matter that is erotically stimulating or sexually arousing but is not pornographic. Erotic art may use any artistic form to depict erotic content, including painting, sculpture, drama, film or music. Erotic literature and erotic photography have become genres in their own right."


By now you'd - maybe - in - some way - got to know the - me - that I'd let you have. And granted from the angle that I'd held the canvass of - me - out to you, you'd have maybe many opinions on who I am. Maybe you even think that I'm a - what. So let's survey, shall we?

This picture of - me - that you'd spied so far - say the words, I'm on pause, hearing what it is that you'd choose to voice.

Don't bother about the progressive - a-z - way of doing things. Don't. Just, let your sweet tongue wrap around the topics. Then roll them from your tongue and spit them out in the order that you choose.

Sadist: My Lovely, the only joy in pain that I'd come to know - is when you're off-line, and I have to swallow my words again. But it - does - seem to teach me that you too have a life.

Dominating: The only dominating I - for now - enjoy - is to design some dreams for you. Many, actually. I can - however not promise a future - where you're - not - tied to whatever's near. But, my Lovely, you won't struggle - much, or starve. I'll kiss you right through and beyond a climax - till you sleep. But, when you wake - still tied, I shall feed you many-many small sweet treats that I'd baked, while you were resting - for later - or that night.

Voyeur: OK. You've got me with this one. Half the time I'll tell you that the shops need my warm on hands on their breads and buns. But I get up at 4 am, so the many dozens in the oven? All of them, are waiting just for you - to count them. Now please bend over to watch them rise - I'm over in our garden. With my camera. Taking snapshots. Of you. For later. When I'm alone.

Lover of restriction and of self-pain: That too, you beautiful soul - you hit the nail right on its head. It's who I am. I'll never let you suffer pain. But on two things I need your oath. We'll make a pact. You, will just be. I'll be the one to cook and clean, bake and fry, steam, vacuum, iron... But you will have to watch me - in the nude, doing all these things. And when I say to stop hitting the nail - with a belt - please do. Should I pass out, I won't be able to massage your feet - to tell you, THANK YOU!

Crooked: I promise you it's not. You cannot draw a line more straight. I thank God for this - every day. I often make sure our love letters are - straight-forward - with...

Thick skinned: On the contrary. As much as I love myself, and my skin, I think I'll love yours even more. My tender side's not from this world. I hide it on a sharp hook - in a bat cave - on the far side of a black abyss. No woman is worthy of it, or had been taught the guts - to go fetch it there. Maybe you. We'll see about that.

Short-tempered: On account of the former part of your - allegation - you could not be more wrong. The temper part, yes. Like a bezirk Viking - who had not had a brew cured by the virgins from his frigid mountain birthplace - for nine years - but, with a toothache. In each cheek. But that - I'll let stand over for someone who brings dishonour to your good name.

Mad: I think you're right. But with time I'll turn you just as mad. The world will think we're crazy, but we'll know it's love, my Lovely. I'd like nothing more to argue still, but since this is not leading to making love with you - I really miss the point of talking more. So, I'll kiss you on your head now, then go. Hell, there must be - something - that'll get you quite upset?

- Wolf Sherman

Blind Date.

Crashing sliding crystal glasses - pushed over to the side - over a dinner table set on ebony,

You tell me you notice shocked patrons staring at us in disbelief at this symphony?

You see, it's senseless waiting till later and keep the next hour separating these wants,

I'd poured you copious semi-sweet apetisers in-between clanging silver cutlery and hasty taste bud chants,

Even the fireplace's loud crackling orange tongues are dining on shooting star embers,

For now, lets ignore these overwhelming steamed veggie flavours, pushed around by gravy'd aromas,

How does it feel? The linen napkins crumpled in your palms, then in slow-motion released, over and over...?

Is the service adequate? This menu of memories of giving and serving well pleased... over and over...?

Would it not be such a travesty to stop before it's time for you, and spoil what's going on inside us...?

By opening each other's eyes to what's really irrelevant, and going on around us...?

- Wolf Sherman

Paint You?

Can I brush you in a life-like manner? All of you? Hold still then, to prevent any blurs you might experience...

Holding the bare canvas facing the morning glow, with my hands somewhere in the middle - Why, you ask? Balance - mainly.

A smear of tender softer sapphire for a skyline, up above, before the sunrise - there's little time,

Next? A finer stroke of more impatience, lightning-yellow, tearing the clouds apart,

The storm on the clearest of days? Oh, wait, give it time, you'll be amidst a typhoon in a moment,

Evenly bent over to the west, all four - just as palm trees do - you know, during the first winds,

Longer stokes of darkness for the horizon, I'd want you to stare at that, till...

Left the soil out? The firmer ground? Oh my dear, you won't be touching ground; not where I'm framing you towards,

Enter my name in the bottom corner? So we'll know for certain who had painted you - like this? Why? Who would you tell?

- Wolf Sherman

The Problem With A Touch.

If my wanting for woman's skin was somehow a longing for a spiritual connexion, that women want -

I need be more considerate whom I touch, and where... Since that, is how this all started...

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