Henswick Wallenfraüde

Henswick Wallenfraüde (1590 - present) was a 16th century German writer and poet. Wallenfraüde is thought by many notable hitorians to have been fathered by the NeoRealist Germanic-Neapolitan poet and satyrist, Johann Wolfgang Ritter von Kvempaelen de Pázmánd (1733/4-March 1804), of whom the Turkish claim to be their Nation’s premier robotic technician. The birth, life and death of his mother remain unknown to history. Despite his genetic composition, Wallenfraüde was eventually raised in Northsuffolkshireton (the modern day Northsuffolkton) by Edward, Lord Herbert of Cherbury (1583-1648) as well as various matriarchal actresses with large bosoms, who inhabited the nearby bawdy house on the Montgomery Castle second and third floors, as well as the east end of the downstairs drawing room.

It is well-known from his early diaries that his respect for the Anglican Church was, in his words, “e’er shorter than myne pricker”(H.W. vol. 6a/12- p.1597), and also that his belief in a higher, almighty power was as likely as a “woo and a-foockin’ withe a thrise-teatted streete whore.” (H.W. vol. 6a/16- p.1595). His expansive discussion and subsequent 22 volume treatise on the topic of the proportion of female breasts to female buttocks (see appendix H p.1005), has led to scholarly implications of homosexual behavior. In 1604, at the age of thirteen, having thoroughly exhausted his study of human anatomy, astronomy, and post-rationalist philosophy, he began turning his attention to poetry and literature (see appendix D p.2177). A few surviving pages from his study books indicate an early mastery of the art form. Here, after the beginning lines to John Hall’s “On an Houre-glasse,”

“ My Life is measur’d by this glasse, this glasse,
By all those little Sands that thorough passe.” ”

He scribbled in the space below:

“ E’er odoriferous poysions doth amasse,
Alchehmiéd Terra Lemnia forth from Myne asse. ”

This little invention has been argued by many to represent the inner turmoil of a malnourished streete whore whom he visited frequently. Wallenfraüde’s works only span the first 19 years of his life, after which he took up trading stocks in the medical insurance industry and has also become an outspoken supporter of the revival of Anarcho-Communism. He currently resides in Oslo with his husband, three wives, and fourteen children. He is said to be in a one-way sado-masichistic relationship with the current mayor Fabian Stang (see appendix D p.2177).

Works

Early Works

The Poem below here printed is of dubitable authorship but is commonly attributed to Wallenfraüde as a matter of custom. It is in the form of three pseudo-sonnets with an ending verse of five lines.

A Journey to Myne Porcelane Figurine

In Myne life, for which I thank only Thee,

I have ne’er tread Devine conquest, fixe frought

By Hellish, dire consequence and vain misery,

To arouse my inquisitive nature,

And excite my Being to acceptanse;

Of Thyne own, most wholly inspired acts.

I confess I have not, by fortune, seen great Men,

To inspire great Pride; nor have I taken arms

With impassioned slaves, or with militias

In gaudy regalia;

Nor clymed mountains

Proude above the cloudes – and triumphed Earth's dread,

Most savage and desoláte regions; Hark!

I say – in all forms of resollution –

I have seen myne pained Soul’s Absollution.

Oft-times fals’d breatheing, I goe inche by inche;

And on Time passeth, devout to the cause;

Yet do I fail to make way.

Failure clings

To myne soul, weighs myne Virtuous effortts;

Thoughts depart myne body, stray to Chaos;

Perhaps – whith humility – Hallo’d Saint,

Through mercy, may offer due aid? perhappes,

Thoughtes of love will give me what strengthe required?

With dying courage, in fading tormént,

I wither, a ghastley fury of Dread,

Incoherence, much disorientéd.

Still thoughtes loste to Curséd and hopeless realms.

Oh! Such Hallucination and Toil!

Is it myne flesh, myne bones soone to spoyél?

Am I lost to Insanity? tortured;

By rot of Tongue and Spirit, forever?

Kinde pitty chokes my spleene; brave, torn I knowe,

In the darkness, the satan-spirits dine.

The Bloode of bodey hath flood from myne head,

Above its Earthward fury, Myne own eyes,

Blessed with light of Sun and flame before – Lost!

To Bloode-red, e’er flowing, Carnael Heat; draines.

The gnawing emptyness is yet a sign;

Lucifer, as morning’s mockéd Lady,

Is the spirit unseeneth in darck

Inwaurd cave and twist, thoughe more souls doth come;

In that knowlédge He hath thus mastred foe;

Dirk, Famyne, Scales, and Sword to Hades go!

Downward fly, and downward fall;

Among thyne kind will thee crawl;

To plague and rank decay fall thee preye;

And hear me whence I saye;

Myne shitte I haveth expelled fully.

Translation of Other Works

The next here printed poem is assuredly from the pen and ink of Wallenfraüde himself, as his signature appears nineteen and one-half times on the front and back of the Gutenberg vellum on which it was written, a luxury only found reasonable by the most esteemed of poets at the time, as it was imported direct from Italy. The complete original manuscript survives today at the Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, in Vienna, Austria. His command of latin at such a young age was not uncommon at the time in Northsuffolkshireton, but the poetic language with which he expertly translates the material is quite astounding.

Vulgatum Versae Tranium Angloum

1. In principio creavit Deus caelum et terram.
   E’er did God maketh heavenne, the earth, and the feemaille.
2. Terra autem erat inanis et vacua et tenebrae super faciem abyssi et spiritus Dei ferebatur super aquas.
   And the earth was clean and uselesse, and ‘twas not light for thyne to see; and God moveth over for thyne water spiritae.
3. Dixitque Deus fiat lux et facta est lux.
   It was soon madeth modus factum that Don Quixote liveth in luxurie.
4. Et vidit Deus lucem quod esset bona et divisit lucem ac tenebras.
   And on divine quoti true sects and cults of all divided varietie did springeth in a priori exile

Late Epics

The latest known works of Wallenfraüde are his epic poems, written around the age of eighteen. They are expansive, but in simple language and some would say quite tawdry. Their obsession with homosexual behavior and racism is often found to be so insulting that the poems are often banned or at the very least shunned by the Church and other institutions. The following is a small example of their character.

Myne Veradedication Of Loveth’s Mynde

I sleep, but my heart is awake

Hark! My beloved is knocking:

Open for me, my beloved, my dove, My perfect one, for my head is full of dew,

My locks with the drops of the night.

I have taken off my tunic; how can I put it on? I have bathed my feet; how can I soil them?

My beloved stretched forth his hand from the hole,

And my insides stirred because of him.

I arose to open for my beloved, and my hands dripped with myrrh,

And my fingers with flowing myrrh, upon the handles of the lock.

I opened for my beloved, but my beloved had hidden

And was gone; my soul went out when he spoke;

I sought him, but found him not;

I called him, But he did not answer me.

What, is your beloved more than another beloved,

That you have so adjured us?"

My beloved is white and ruddy, surrounded by myriads.

His head is as the finest gold; his locks are curled, they are as black as a raven.

His eyes are doves beside rivulets of water, bathing in milk, fitly set.

His jaws are a bed of spice, growths of aromatic plants; his lips are like roses, dripping with flowing myrrh.

His hands are wheels of gold, set with chrysolite; his abdomen is a block of ivory, overlaid with sapphires.

His legs are pillars of marble, founded upon sockets of fine gold, his appearance is like the Lebanon, chosen as the cedars.

His palate is sweet, and he is altogether desirable; this is my beloved, and this is my friend.

Behold, you are fair, my beloved;

Behold, you are fair; your eyes are like doves, from within your kerchief;

Your hair is like a flock of goats that streamed down from Mount Gilead.

Until the sun spreads and the shadows flee, I will go to the mountain of myrrh.

You are all fair, my beloved, and there is no blemish in you.

You have captivated my heart; my sister, my bride; you have captivated my heart with one of your eyes, with one link of your necklaces.

How fair is your love, my sister, my bride; how much better is your love than wine, and the fragrance of your oils than all spices!

How fair and how pleasant you are, a love with delights!

And your palate is like the best wine, that glides down smoothly to my beloved, making the lips of the sleeping speak."

O, that you were like my brother, who sucked my mother's breasts! I would find you outside, I would kiss you, and they would not despise me.

References

• Biography from A study of Coprophiliac Poetry in the 16th and 17th Centuries

Further reading

• For further reference material see Reference Index H.W., Vol. 63, 5b/9 p.2177)