#chubby - Hello Poetry

(after midnight, with bad intentions) A chubby moon slouches behind the bar, spilling silver like a drunk who overshares, round with secrets, and just a little out of breath from existing. Life has been unkind to her you can tell by the way she wears it: like a dress one size too small, stitched by regret, unzipping itself in all the right places. Her beauty refuses discipline. Buttons wave white flags. Fabric negotiates, loses. Curves stage quiet rebellions, the kind that make saints forget their prayers and philosophers misplace their arguments. Even the soul, poor thing, kicks at its ribcage like a tenant behind on rent. I thought why not be useful? Why not commit a small miracle of distraction? So I leaned in, voice soft enough to be mistaken for trouble: “What’s your name, darling?” She smiled not kind, not cruel, but the sort of smile that has ruined better men for less. *** she said, polished in an English accent, as if the word had gone to finishing school. *** I repeated, rolling it slowly on the tongue like expensive sin. “Beautiful. Truly poetic. Shakespeare would blush.” She raised an eyebrow history itself briefly reconsidered. “And what,” I asked, “does one drink in the presence of such a masterpiece?” She leaned closer close enough to rearrange my good intentions her voice now a conspiracy: “Something strong,” she said, “because subtlety clearly isn’t your strength.” I nodded, wounded but willing. “Fair,” I said. “Then pour me whatever makes bad decisions feel like philosophy.” She laughed and for a moment the moon behind her looked jealous.

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Apr 16

Apr 16, 2026 at 9:00 PM UTC

Marwan-Baytie

London Bar

(after midnight, with bad intentions) A chubby moon slouches behind the bar, spilling silver like a drunk who overshares, round with secrets, and just a little out of breath from existing. Life has been unkind to her you can tell by the way she wears it: like a dress one size too small, stitched by regret, unzipping itself in all the right places. Her beauty refuses discipline. Buttons wave white flags. Fabric negotiates, loses. Curves stage quiet rebellions, the kind that make saints forget their prayers and philosophers misplace their arguments. Even the soul, poor thing, kicks at its ribcage like a tenant behind on rent. I thought why not be useful? Why not commit a small miracle of distraction? So I leaned in, voice soft enough to be mistaken for trouble: “What’s your name, darling?” She smiled not kind, not cruel, but the sort of smile that has ruined better men for less. *** she said, polished in an English accent, as if the word had gone to finishing school. *** I repeated, rolling it slowly on the tongue like expensive sin. “Beautiful. Truly poetic. Shakespeare would blush.” She raised an eyebrow history itself briefly reconsidered. “And what,” I asked, “does one drink in the presence of such a masterpiece?” She leaned closer close enough to rearrange my good intentions her voice now a conspiracy: “Something strong,” she said, “because subtlety clearly isn’t your strength.” I nodded, wounded but willing. “Fair,” I said. “Then pour me whatever makes bad decisions feel like philosophy.” She laughed and for a moment the moon behind her looked jealous.