The Digitized Waif

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic


Submitted: May 24, 2018

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Submitted: May 24, 2018



The Digitized Waif

Alexander Guinevere Kern

Copyright, 10-2009

*"There Is No Fiction In My Fiction!"


My Bitch Wench Loser Soul

Stared long at Heaven's Holo Screen,

The Bug of Her, the Energy of Her,

All Jag, Spark and Sting,

And chose my poor, blameless

Inchoate fetus form,

In which to launch her Deviant Being,

Without my permission or consent.

My life a cataclysm tragedy, a

Brute Misfortune Play, all penned

Before I sucked one human breath,

And thus condemned me to star as

Sorrow, Sickness, Pain and every other

Class of Loss a human can endure.

She thinks it's all a Game, my life unreal.

Cheating spouses, stolen Spawn,

Dense new wives enraged with psycho heat,

Absent parents, dearth of friends,

Vanished kin, unstable jobs and homes,

A canopy of Poverty descended 

All over my life like avenging Djinn.

Shelters, hovels, subsidized cribs,

Forever bargaining a bed

From a host of Alpha Swagger men,

Who parked their needs upon my bod

And molested my ambitions 'til they died.

She slammed into my pre-birth body,

Always weak in blood and bones,

Bladder agony, testy teeth, Scissors

Of Migraine snipping through my brain,

Ulcers, hives and swings of mood

Sharp enough to cut a compass mad.

She never wrote me so much as one Joy chapter,

She had so much Karma to pay off.

Souls possess no body, and so

They hijack ours and shove

Us 'round the board of their Karmic Plot.

My Soul doesn't even have a Soul,

If you ask me. God alone knows

What Broken Outcast packed my Coil

Like a soiled wad in a rusty musket.

Souls feel no pain, nor lust, nor love,

Nor heartbreak, nor loss. Betrayal is

Anathema to them; they know not

Abuse in Heaven, nor want of house or chow.

Sheltered by Love and Light Vibrations,

They're fed energy like Honey from God's mind.

Disease afflicts not once their teardrop shapes,

No, they require Human Bodies to Host

Their ambitious Beings and vicariously

Live sidekick to our anguish, aches and woes,

Which prompts many to pills, potions,

Grain and hops, guns, nooses, razors,

Rifles, sliced veins and self-release

In all its Hemlock flavors, that we

Humans might escape the dark scenes

They invaded us to perform in this

Virtual Environment, this ruined stage

Of Earth. A pox on your unholy tort!

Genderless, what can these Spirituous

Arthopods know of male and female

Passion? Though they incarnate that

They might partake of Human Rut,

They cannot take the act back

With them to Their Realm of Light.

They're left with artificial, pseudo sex,

And faux, facsimile food, crude 


Though they incarnate ten thousand lives

No prayers, promises or petitions

Will ever render them in purest flesh and blood

But by our grace.

Upon our deaths, these Souls eject

Outward in a rush and swirl of sacred smoke,

Without one thought for mortal life or who they were

When cleaved to our bods like parasitic twins.

No regrets, nor repine, nor human emotion

Clings to their divinest Glory Selves

Blessed bliss enfolds them and rinses free

Our earthly pain and imprint from their minds.

My Soul is a whining, young-ass Slag,

Born fractured blazing crazy, thus

Not a Heavenly Healer of any sort

Could wrest Normalcy from

Such a defective larvae.

She grew into a bitch torch,

Like a pinwheel of spasming Light across the sky

One Master told me. A Rebel Soul, unleashed.

I'm shocked she wasn't voided or deleted,

Her rogue energy filed or flushed

For further study, like a therapist

Probes the errant mind of a psychopath.

They insist we Are our Soul.

Believe it not, for who among

The Grief-choked Masses would choose

The tormented lives we're forced

To Play upon the Earth School stage?

By their decree we've no free will,

Only they do, these radiant bugs from Heaven.

Their preprogrammed, coded lives and

Scripted lessons break our bodies,

Our hearts, and sear our human minds

Before they kill us off like fallen pawns.

And they call it The Game

On the Limitation Plane.

Are we having fun, yet?

So hear me, Soul, you Black

Invading Shade, for all your

Performances as Dancer, Singer,

Actress, Skater, monk, pianist, Pyrate

Fortune Soldier, Roman matron,

Pilot, Baker, Poet, Painter,

Killer, Mongol, Viking, Queen,

Geisha, Harlot, Rogue, Nun,

Wife, Husband, Lover, Son

Daughter, Grandparent, Sailor, Freak,

You have shucked off all those mortal roles,

Those lives, and are no better

For your thefted experiences.

Your lessons aborted unlearned,

Your Karma-owing ass my bane.

You remain a Dark Soul, beyond

Redemption or Compassion. Even Your

Sin-meister Fallen Lord,

All cock, muscle and villain curls,

The Maestro Ha'Satan, spun his huge

Hand around my head and drew my stare

Deep into his liquid asphalt eyes, and liked

What He saw there. He cupped my jaw,

Inhaled my goblet face, yet never smiled,

Despite His confident intentions. 

Not a cheerful Man, this Son of the Morning Star.

Your Allegiance Is Obvious. I felt your love for Him.

I curse you for your Taking of

My Human Life, Slaughtering Soul,

My person not meant for your intrusion,

For God made me, as well, and not

A vehicle, your pack mule, your slave,

An Ignorant Host. I never signed a contract

To allow you to inflict your Soul Path,

Mission or Life Plan upon me.

Whether I be a digitized form or not,

My world a matrix of illusion

Or some other false reality, I demand

You hoist your unholy Blitz

And quit me . . . go back to your

Exquisite Hive Home and heave my Self,

Ill-used by you to serve your aims,

Heavy with dolor and darkness,

Upon my rebel bed. Even Sataniel treated me

Better than you did, settling me back into

My body like a Conquering God,

Absently, but not without affection.

Go Home, Ameliaura,

Let me die, for I've earned the peace

You never wrote me for performance

Purposes. Pile on me like Puritan stones

My glitter jewels, my mounds of clothes,

My greedy stock of books and chocolate bars,

Which your Soul Friends are so quick to diss,

For they lack mercy and cannot tell

The Sinner from the sins.

Toss my paintings to Fate's four winds,

Set fire to my Legend and go forth hence,

My journals ablaze with Phoenix fingerprints.

Then all who read will know this poet's truth,

You stole me for your Education,

And ripped pleasure out every page of my short life.

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