"Heard melodies are sweet; but those unheard ooh kill 'em."
One is a 6-year-old possessed of a preternaturally deft and expressive style of modern dance that belies his relative youth; the other was a 25-year-old (when he died) possessed of a preternaturally deft and expressive style of poetry that likewise marked him a prodigy. That one lived in the 19th century and plied his craft under plum trees in European country gardens, while the other lives in the 21st century, and performs in the driveways of suburban Atlanta, should not obscure their essential kinship: These are artists for whom everyday objects like Grecian urns and spoons are not merely jars to house dead relatives and tools with which to shovel cereal into our mouths, but windows on the elemental magic of life. Also, they're both famous for not being fond of wearing shirts.
With Terrio dropping his first single this week, and John Keats being, well, muthafuckin' John Keats, it's time the world saw these visionaries flourish in the context of each other, in a mash-up for the ages. Here is an Ode on a Lil' Terrio, set to the words of Keats. Sorry Shelley. Holler at Grumpy Cat.