E.B. Schnepp
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ebschnepp.bsky.social
E.B. Schnepp
@ebschnepp.bsky.social
350 followers 240 following 140 posts
Poet, cryptid currently residing in Chicago, featured in Poetry Daily, work in Iron Horse, Nat. Brute, South Dakota Review, and more.

ebschnepp@weebly.com

Chapbook: Blueberries Stain Like Blood
Available from Bottlecap Press Features
Posts Replies Media Videos
Reposted by E.B. Schnepp
hanvanderhart.bsky.social
ChatGPT / an LLM will never have angst over its writing and that’s why it will never be as good as you, a fallible human, wrapped around the coil of your own anxiety and heart muscle
January 5, 2026 at 9:27 PM
Reposted by E.B. Schnepp
onlypoemsmag.bsky.social
Fanny Howe
January 5, 2026 at 9:10 PM
Reposted by E.B. Schnepp
stinasdemons.com
Me, waking up this morning, to 2026:
David Lynch sitting in a chair with headphones and a bullhorn saying "Okay, let's try that again, but this time good."
January 1, 2026 at 2:11 PM
Reposted by E.B. Schnepp
ebschnepp.bsky.social
It's New Year's Eve! I did poetry this year! Here's some writing things I did (not in chronological order)

The big one -- MY CHAPBOOK CAME OUT! Find it at Bottlecap Press (linked in bio, I think it's on sale right now??!!)
The cover of my chapbook "blueberries stain like blood" it has a dark, red-specked background and a heraldry style crest on it. Have a sample poem from the chapbook! "Abandoned Bodies and Farmhouses" Abandoned Bodies and Farmhouses A fireplace stands solitary in a field on left side of the road. I swear driving home some nights I see smoke curl out its chimney, wonder who, what, warms their fingers in its blue blaze, if there’s a door I simply can’t see—this house, built for air, who do you shelter now? If I stopped, pressed tight to overgrown ditch cotton that bristles, that cuts to the tongue when you try to talk about it and the sky, painted over by corn—by the time it goldens, wilts for harvest, I’ll have forgotten the way a sky could be blue.
December 31, 2025 at 3:26 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
All that matters is letting 2025 know we’re over it’s shit (and maybe during a couple warning shots across 2026’s bow just in case…) 😂
January 1, 2026 at 12:35 AM
Reposted by E.B. Schnepp
erinvachon.bsky.social
We should all end 2025 early, bc that’s in the spirit of 2025.
January 1, 2026 at 12:04 AM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
It’s midnight somewhere? (I’m really considering just calling it and ending 2025 early, if only for myself lol)
December 31, 2025 at 11:47 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
Thank you so much! Truly a mythologized version of Billy Idol is my muse XD
December 31, 2025 at 10:42 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
"eating taco bell in the middle of a burger king drive thru just to feel something" in @upthestaircase.bsky.social
The art piece "Rathaus Münster 5 Filiz" by Nuala McEvoy that accompanied my poem (I'm not going to do this justice, I'm so sorry) it's a slightly abstract golden palace on a pink ground that slightly reflects it and a pixilated/dotted background eating taco bell in the middle of a burger king drive thru just to feel something I’m going to dive bars; collecting bathroom stall numbers, starting to not be joking when I tell you I’m going to start calling. I admit I’m bitter, wanting to skip the awkward “will you be my murder” part and go right to the couch, take out, tv flashing 90’s nostalgia. but, the only burrito here in months has been me; blanket wrapped, soggy in the middle. I’ve never been good at living, anxious on my best days, agoraphobic on my worst, but I could be tempted by cheese to unfurl—Sara says she’s never been hung over enough to eat taco bell and I don’t have the heart to tell her it’s drunk food, not hangover food, because in this case I too am unqualified, sober for all the wrong reasons. terrified of what it’d feel like to let the rubber bands under my skin snap. I stick to little rebellions, dipping chicken nuggets in fire sauce. every bad idea another in a series of intrusive thoughts. and this is no different. you see I’m not here for a good time, a long time, for the one that got away, long lost love — hello, no you don’t know me, but for an hour or two on a tuesday night I loved you forever, just thought you ought to know. tonight I’m grateful I’ll never wake up to another’s body, and this too is love— I love the idea of you so much I never want to startle awake to you, open eyed and blue. in every situation let there [still] be breath.
December 31, 2025 at 3:50 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
"you know some people never make it out of this scene" in @beestung.bsky.social beestungmag.com/issue23/one-...
[poem page 1] You know some people never make it out of this scene And I’m still in love with Billy Idol, though Billy Idol isn’t Billy Idol anymore, is Angel cosplaying as Spike in an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer that Joss Whedon didn’t write because we all know he didn’t have the balls, couldn’t imagine love outside of who could hurt the worst, so irreparable they still woke cold sweat, still feeling hands, eyes. And Buffy the Vampire Slayer was never about Buffy the Vampire Slayer at all, it was about redeeming Giles. Redeeming Angel. Proving the thesis that the good guy got the girl in the end and when that didn’t sell cancelling the show. Hiring the Nice Guy to rewrite the story. Correct all the things that went wrong, there was no other choice. And I’m still in love with Billy Idol because Billy Idol isn’t Billy Idol anymore, Billy Idol is William Michael Albert Broad an Englishman who exists still, Peter Pan playing old favorites for those who still believe. I choose not to believe. Leave him frozen in 1982 and don’t look too close knowing he was a rockstar in 1982 and if I looked there’s bound to be plenty I can’t love him for. Leave him the last note of “White Wedding” hanging in the air and laugh at how nothing’s changed, he’s just the same as Greensleeves’ anonymous/lost/forgotten author, filled with rumors it was written by King Henry, the one with all the wives, for his second wife, a hard fought seduction. The original fuck boy anthem. And I’m still in love with Billy Idol, though Billy Idol isn’t Billy Idol literally speaking. I mean I love Billy Idol meaning every boy/girl/gender binary rejecting person in split kneed jeans and too many piercings, maybe an enviable bounty of tattoos, by which I mean more than the zero I, needle-phobic, can handle scratched into my skin. I love loud music echoing in my bones long after someone’s finally made me turn it down, kicked the old stereo’s cord out of it’s socket. My own small time rebellions, the ones some days I wish I wasn’t too afraid to try on my own skin. Or maybe I mean Billy Idol; as in I like to imagine he was the one my mother watched secretly on MTV, her own small rebellion, that she had small rebellions once. She enjoyed watching a man in eyeliner, leather growl something that could only charitably be called a love song. And I’m still in love with Billy Idol, though Billy Idol isn’t Billy Idol, by which I mean I envy Billy Idol the way everyone knew his name, his every Friday night hook-up, and now the top google hits for “Billy Idol” include “Whatever Happed To” and I too would like to vanish like that.
December 31, 2025 at 3:50 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
"If You're Hungry You Will Eat" in @ponderreview.bsky.social
The cover of Ponder Review Vol 9 Issue 1 A close up of a purple and white ombre'd flower's petals with water droplets [poem pt1] If You’re Hungry You Will Eat Everything was rotten, displayed in its finest furs, across counters slick with sweetness from ruptured tomato skins, bruised peaches. The blueberries though hadn’t burst, had only shrunk in on themselves, dried to small pebbles; sad signifiers of what they once had been, cascading over table edge and counter to pool on the floor below. Beyond all of this, beyond the scent—heavy and a wrong kind of sweetness that caught in the lungs, scratched along the throat—there was a scurrying. Rivers of ants flowing from fruit and their leavings to baseboard cracks, into ancient drywall, the spaces they made home on the boundaries of my own. When you’re hungry you will eat and any that get in the way of your open jaws, you will eat them too. In that place I lowered myself to my knees, [poem pt2] my mouth to all that was there and festering. Let the spoiled, the remnants, the my-eyes- were-bigger-than-my-mouth spill out and down to stain skin, mottle it red with what might have been strawberry turned muddied brown, a could-be blood splatter.
December 31, 2025 at 3:50 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
"her name was" in @fifthwheelpress.bsky.social Brainrot Anthology fifthwheelpress.com/anth7backend...
A graphic for the brainrot anthology her name was [redacted] record skip on the tip of my tongue but not the back of my mind or itching along my frontal cortex can’t be rendered into sound another skip a signifier missing its signified if a song skips enough consistently enough Pavlov darling you’ll startle into your own sound the first time you hear it right and that was always her a gap in the tooth your tongue tip always finds its way into yet’s rendered neutral expected through the power of familiarity call me call me call called white noise static scream something soothing and grating in turn lack needling in the middle of the night what was her name she must have one everyone has a name don’t they
December 31, 2025 at 3:50 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
"will the stars remember me in chicago" in South Dakota Review
The cover of South Dakota Review 59.3/59.4 "will the stars remember me in chicago" (the first page) will the stars remember me in chicago like tea leaves, I steep in the middle of city crossroads reading the neon, staring so deep into its glow I can see blurred shapes beyond. what’s written on the back of my own skull. some punk rock god, stutter-hipped and bass screamed, tattooed or carved or promised me something, buried it behind my eyelids, dared me to read it and here I am, now gambling in the road-dirt with my own future. naming my own god cock-tease come out and rapture me already too obscene with my exposed rib cage, count one too many to be this publicly perverse. it shouldn’t have to come to this, reading tarot, every card pull a bald faced promise of two weeks to true love and I flip off every deck. refuse to leave my studio until time runs out and I’m still lonely and unsure if I’m just too proud, too spiteful, or if I’m simply afraid it’s a lie; there are so many false tellings I’m in a stand off with the ancestors, leave my alter candles unlit for days at a time so we can all stagnate together "will the stars remember me in chicago" page 2 as every rune hits the table blank face up and I say fair enough to no one in particular.
December 31, 2025 at 3:50 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
"eurydice" in @roanokereview.bsky.social www.roanokereview.org/poetry2025/e...
eurydice there was no such thing as poetry until a woman in a field opened her throat to exclaim how beautiful a bumblebee / was perched on the webbing between her thumb / and index, the moment before she changed before him / from flower to threat and he did the only thing he could, / impaled himself on her, shredded himself for a hive of beloveds.
December 31, 2025 at 3:50 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
It's New Year's Eve! I did poetry this year! Here's some writing things I did (not in chronological order)

The big one -- MY CHAPBOOK CAME OUT! Find it at Bottlecap Press (linked in bio, I think it's on sale right now??!!)
The cover of my chapbook "blueberries stain like blood" it has a dark, red-specked background and a heraldry style crest on it. Have a sample poem from the chapbook! "Abandoned Bodies and Farmhouses" Abandoned Bodies and Farmhouses A fireplace stands solitary in a field on left side of the road. I swear driving home some nights I see smoke curl out its chimney, wonder who, what, warms their fingers in its blue blaze, if there’s a door I simply can’t see—this house, built for air, who do you shelter now? If I stopped, pressed tight to overgrown ditch cotton that bristles, that cuts to the tongue when you try to talk about it and the sky, painted over by corn—by the time it goldens, wilts for harvest, I’ll have forgotten the way a sky could be blue.
December 31, 2025 at 3:26 PM
Reposted by E.B. Schnepp
mobydickatsea.bsky.social
all at once a queer accident happened
December 30, 2025 at 1:47 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
you're so sweet and yeah, part of the issue now is i think just my own limited scope and over introversion. both for digital and physical, tho the physical stuff is harder. it's just so much energy to be a body in space let alone to force my presence on another doing the same lollll
December 29, 2025 at 9:20 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
Thank you!! I tried (and still am) connecting with a few writers I know and stuff to try and share work and things but it whittled back down to just two of us and that gets rough. You really do need a certain magic number to maintain activity/equilibrium and yet not just an open free for all 😐
December 29, 2025 at 8:45 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
Dude, I will never get over how for a while it's practically pitch black by 3pm!
December 29, 2025 at 8:43 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
I admit to being directionally challenged and have not really found my way around yet (work from home/covid habits really made me twice the homebody) but I have been to a couple Rivers+Roads Readings! I actually saw yours with the dudes from Line Break (it was great btw, a real highlight of 2025)
December 29, 2025 at 5:42 PM
ebschnepp.bsky.social
So like how are y'all finding each other/community etc? Because I've done the normal things (and like my milage did vary w/ the whole presses and mags/mfa/etc thing) and kinda still just find myself sitting alone in my little hole poking at the keys. (might delete this later)
December 29, 2025 at 3:27 PM
Reposted by E.B. Schnepp
tomsnarsky.bsky.social
Fanny Howe
Into the forest I went walking—to get lost. I saw faces in the knots of trees, it was insane, and hands in branches, and everywhere names. Throughout the elms small birds shivered and sang in rhyme. I wanted to be air, or wind—to be at ease in outer space but in the world this was the case: Human was God’s secret name.
December 26, 2025 at 12:11 AM
Reposted by E.B. Schnepp
somewordslit.bsky.social
doing a special call for football pieces
THE SOME WORDS BIG GAME SPECIAL I used to run my own football forum. In the spirit of that, I want to publish some football stuff on the morning of the Super Bowl. IDK how many things I’ll publish. If I like, I’ll probably say yes. HOW TO SUBMIT: email me a piece + a bio to somewordslit@gmail.com DEADLINE: January 23rd, because I want these submitted before the conference championship games
December 23, 2025 at 10:32 PM
Reposted by E.B. Schnepp
juscarts.com
send your words to my journal!!
somewordslit.bsky.social Some Words @somewordslit.bsky.social · Dec 13
we have a few spots to fill still for January

want to be considered?

email one piece (poem/story/essay/whatever) & a bio to somewordslit@gmail.com

help us fill up January so we can then start working on filling up February
December 13, 2025 at 3:32 PM