hepeck - Hello Poetry

back where we kissed the first time a gyro and a lemonade in hand and a whiskey on my mind i saw you in a dream last week the smell of expensive cigarettes bathed in **** boring in my mind you were formative to say the least moulding me to meet your every need my seventeen-year-old frame between you and a minivan thrilled to find myself so kissable consumed by the thrill of it all missing the thing that everyone saw

0

Jan 9, 2021

Jan 9, 2021 at 12:32 AM UTC

hepeck

Untitled

back where we kissed the first time a gyro and a lemonade in hand and a whiskey on my mind i saw you in a dream last week the smell of expensive cigarettes bathed in **** boring in my mind you were formative to say the least moulding me to meet your every need my seventeen-year-old frame between you and a minivan thrilled to find myself so kissable consumed by the thrill of it all missing the thing that everyone saw

13

poems make me want to strangle you with my bony stupid hands. i confided in the god of your heart and she said you find meaning in pain, that you're sick when you're well, you'll never love me when i'm good.

0

Dec 17, 2020

Dec 17, 2020 at 4:38 PM UTC

hepeck

Untitled

poems make me want to strangle you with my bony stupid hands. i confided in the god of your heart and she said you find meaning in pain, that you're sick when you're well, you'll never love me when i'm good.

10

i think i forgot what hunger is, that's not a metaphor. i've begun to attribute the wailing in my stomach to mystery, to some unknowable fear. i used to live atop nothing, called myself well. it was holy, my sacred duty to ignore desire. my body, a cavernous hole, a self-swallowing maw, i can grow emptiness that folds over on itself, kneads itself heavy-handedly. i can grow emptiness that feeds itself, a self-sustaining culture.

0

Dec 16, 2020

Dec 16, 2020 at 9:20 PM UTC

hepeck

Untitled

i think i forgot what hunger is, that's not a metaphor. i've begun to attribute the wailing in my stomach to mystery, to some unknowable fear. i used to live atop nothing, called myself well. it was holy, my sacred duty to ignore desire. my body, a cavernous hole, a self-swallowing maw, i can grow emptiness that folds over on itself, kneads itself heavy-handedly. i can grow emptiness that feeds itself, a self-sustaining culture.

22

i keep putting these tiny little pills in my body, the doctors say it will build a wall between me and worry. with a little vaporized courage, the days grow shorter, and my thoughts grow long and languid. i reach into myself with eager hands; a child trying to grasp onto every tiny treasure with reckless, manic joy. i miss those sticky sweaty lethargic nights, when we would drink wine in the yard, and both scheme quietly of how to touch, sit just right, justify a kiss on the neck, forgetting that silence is a deadly giveaway. my eyes bore into you, frustrated knowing i had not stopped and could not stop myself from loving you, not from a thousand miles away and not with your face in my hands. we are cold, we bike together in silence and winter makes us short and dry and unsweet, and i try to remember your face from a few days ago, and i can’t. when the sun warms us up again, warm up to me. love me like the pounding in my stomach that tells me in your absence, that tells me i want to live forever and ever and ever.

0

Nov 18, 2020

Nov 18, 2020 at 10:33 PM UTC

hepeck

Untitled

i keep putting these tiny little pills in my body, the doctors say it will build a wall between me and worry. with a little vaporized courage, the days grow shorter, and my thoughts grow long and languid. i reach into myself with eager hands; a child trying to grasp onto every tiny treasure with reckless, manic joy. i miss those sticky sweaty lethargic nights, when we would drink wine in the yard, and both scheme quietly of how to touch, sit just right, justify a kiss on the neck, forgetting that silence is a deadly giveaway. my eyes bore into you, frustrated knowing i had not stopped and could not stop myself from loving you, not from a thousand miles away and not with your face in my hands. we are cold, we bike together in silence and winter makes us short and dry and unsweet, and i try to remember your face from a few days ago, and i can’t. when the sun warms us up again, warm up to me. love me like the pounding in my stomach that tells me in your absence, that tells me i want to live forever and ever and ever.

29

i wish i could keep my head down, i wish i could keep my nose where it belongs. i am spectacularly good at hurting my own feelings. the sun shines cold on my hot head, i should be storing fat for winter, hibernating in some warm quiet cave, i am instead marching along on my unmerry way. the clock falls back, my hours lost i sink into the old ache in my gut telling me, love is lost. love is for the birds, and they've flown further south. you fool, you honestly expected honesty? the only honest thing is snot freezing in your cupid's bow, again reminding you, your entrails are always right, your body holds tension to render you impenetrable, but no hurt hurts worst.

0

Nov 18, 2020

Nov 18, 2020 at 10:25 PM UTC

hepeck

Untitled

i wish i could keep my head down, i wish i could keep my nose where it belongs. i am spectacularly good at hurting my own feelings. the sun shines cold on my hot head, i should be storing fat for winter, hibernating in some warm quiet cave, i am instead marching along on my unmerry way. the clock falls back, my hours lost i sink into the old ache in my gut telling me, love is lost. love is for the birds, and they've flown further south. you fool, you honestly expected honesty? the only honest thing is snot freezing in your cupid's bow, again reminding you, your entrails are always right, your body holds tension to render you impenetrable, but no hurt hurts worst.

30

i start to say i love you and it catches in my throat, thank god. i used to say it so readily, compulsively like i was hammering on a thumbtack with a sledgehammer. now i want to say it low and slow, the same way our affection has simmered over hot coals, never quite boiling over, just the right amount of sap in our voices when we say goodbye. i wonder how much of it i’ve dreamed in these drunken winter months when i laid up in bed until i was stupid and drowned my loneliness until you called. remember when we woke up in the sun and you said you liked the the texture of my voice? the way i say things? they say we spend one third of our lifetimes sleeping and i think i’ve spent the same amount of time thinking about kissing your shoulder in the shower. just that one moment on repeat while i ride the train and walk to work, and stare out the window, and paint in the studio, and take a shower, and smoke a cigarette out the window, and, admittedly, probably the entire time we talk on the phone and you tell me about your day and tell me terrible jokes, and i can tell you have your face buried in a pillow.

0

Oct 14, 2020

Oct 14, 2020 at 12:04 AM UTC

hepeck

something i don't mean anymore but it still sounds nice

i start to say i love you and it catches in my throat, thank god. i used to say it so readily, compulsively like i was hammering on a thumbtack with a sledgehammer. now i want to say it low and slow, the same way our affection has simmered over hot coals, never quite boiling over, just the right amount of sap in our voices when we say goodbye. i wonder how much of it i’ve dreamed in these drunken winter months when i laid up in bed until i was stupid and drowned my loneliness until you called. remember when we woke up in the sun and you said you liked the the texture of my voice? the way i say things? they say we spend one third of our lifetimes sleeping and i think i’ve spent the same amount of time thinking about kissing your shoulder in the shower. just that one moment on repeat while i ride the train and walk to work, and stare out the window, and paint in the studio, and take a shower, and smoke a cigarette out the window, and, admittedly, probably the entire time we talk on the phone and you tell me about your day and tell me terrible jokes, and i can tell you have your face buried in a pillow.

1

inky tendrils staining lemon yellow and candy pink raleigh sky smelling of sulfur and drive-thru chicken spectators stand on the side of the freeway masked and silent watching the glowing orb burn beneath the overpass, among the tangles of kudzu while something blares in the distance i drive by slow, and quiet and long to find this in the evening news.

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Oct 1, 2020

Oct 1, 2020 at 2:05 PM UTC

hepeck

down in flames

inky tendrils staining lemon yellow and candy pink raleigh sky smelling of sulfur and drive-thru chicken spectators stand on the side of the freeway masked and silent watching the glowing orb burn beneath the overpass, among the tangles of kudzu while something blares in the distance i drive by slow, and quiet and long to find this in the evening news.

14

crescent moon waxing buttery over a loaf of bread lonely, scattered in the parking lot i ask the sky, where do pigeons go at night. five dollars buys me enough to sleep, maybe even get a laugh in -- i feel thirsty for myself, to know the me that knows how to be fun. in the line we stand six feet apart, like good little children hugging our knot, begrudgingly. two girls with eight braids between them play-fight, step out of line. the younger swinging punches silly-slow like underwater, giggly never landing blows, like girls do, too amused to do harm.

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Aug 22, 2020

Aug 22, 2020 at 9:37 PM UTC

hepeck

where do pigeons go at night.

crescent moon waxing buttery over a loaf of bread lonely, scattered in the parking lot i ask the sky, where do pigeons go at night. five dollars buys me enough to sleep, maybe even get a laugh in -- i feel thirsty for myself, to know the me that knows how to be fun. in the line we stand six feet apart, like good little children hugging our knot, begrudgingly. two girls with eight braids between them play-fight, step out of line. the younger swinging punches silly-slow like underwater, giggly never landing blows, like girls do, too amused to do harm.

23

we roll over, hungover, he mounts the day, and i lay passive and dull. he moves with the seriousness of a man who has little time, i move with the grace of dried bones.

0

Aug 7, 2020

Aug 7, 2020 at 1:56 PM UTC

hepeck

Untitled

we roll over, hungover, he mounts the day, and i lay passive and dull. he moves with the seriousness of a man who has little time, i move with the grace of dried bones.

8

wakefulness, always around the same time no longer from despair, i simply spend my days in a torpid state. what is the need for sleep when nothing has been spent?

0

Jul 6, 2020

Jul 6, 2020 at 5:13 AM UTC

hepeck

Untitled

wakefulness, always around the same time no longer from despair, i simply spend my days in a torpid state. what is the need for sleep when nothing has been spent?

5