unmarketabletalents: April 2013

Potato Cake

I don’t feast on prayer. Now my banquet is gone...

There’s just some broken bread for murder’s sake.

Mock I His blood in weeks spent pissing on,

while holding in my hand potato cake.

Who mourns the widow’s loss the night she cries?

We burn the dead, and all the poor we bake.

Like men in pridey walks we shed their kind,

and then we offer down potato cake.

Once Sunday passes silent and I’m sure,

I’ll hope to Me that I will again taste

the aspartame, the junk, the filling core,

A pan of steaming fresh potato cake.

I’ve heard who God forgives He kills to take...

Instead I think I’ll live and eat potato cake.

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