NEW NEW NEW

Adam and I, aka the Perrytree, made a new album today. It's called Aaron Three. Download it for free today!

ThePerrytree.com

make up

I hate for my most recent post to be a depressing one. Enjoy this image of a baby tapir.

cried myself blind

I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. I am nothing if not melancholy. In cursive.

Em Dick

I just like to read them.


---

I had a guinea golden—
I lost it in the sand—
And tho' the sum was simple
And pounds were in the land—
Still, had it such a value
Unto my frugal eye—
That when I could not find it—
I sat me down to sigh.

I had a crimson Robin—
Who sang full many a day
But when the woods were painted,
He, too, did fly away—

Time brought me other Robins—
Their ballads were the same—
Still, for my missing Troubador
I kept the "house at hame."

I had a star in heaven—
One "Pleiad" was its name—
And when I was not heeding,
It wandered from the same.
And tho' the skies are crowded—
And all the night ashine—
I do not care about it—
Since none of them are mine.

My story has a moral—
I have a missing friend—
"Pleiad" its name, and Robin,
And guinea in the sand.
And when this mournful ditty
Accompanied with tear—
Shall meet the eye of traitor
In country far from here—
Grant that repentance solemn
May seize upon his mind—
And he no consolation
Beneath the sun may find.


---


Safe in their alabaster chambers,
Untouched by morning and untouched by noon,
Sleep the meek members of the resurrection,
Rafter of satin, and roof of stone.

Light laughs the breeze in her castle of sunshine;
Babbles the bee in a stolid ear;
Pipe the sweet birds in ignorant cadence -
Ah, what sagacity perished here!

Grand go the years in the crescent above them;
Worlds scoop their arcs, and firmaments row,
Diadems drop and Doges surrender,
Soundless as dots on a disk of snow.


---


THE SOUL selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.

I ’ve known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.

i was thinking about this all day yesterday

A boon for dreamlessness,
this petty thief of time.

also, i laugh in my sleep.

100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000

Ready, I am going to write forty million words. I am going to write a fucking novel and you're watching it happen right now. Well, not really. You are, though, in a way. It's deeply interactive. See how much you're participating in this creative process? Such symbiosis is happening. It is unbelievable. Oh I've suddenly lost all my energy. What do I write about now? What was I even writing about to begin with? I want to talk about something very significant. I want to tell a story about something and I want it to resonate with you and stay with you forever. I want you to cry when it's over. Not only because of my masterful command of language and theme, but because you wanted it never to end. I don't think this is it, though. This doesn't feel like it. There aren't even any characters or settings, and nothing has happened so far. Nothing's going to happen, either. Stop.

been listening to podcasts on my bike

Quarantine
Eavan Boland

In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking-they were both walking-north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.

bike

I cycle through 20 moods per mile
and average ten miles per hour
swearing to surrender
at the next number 2 bus stop
cursing shoulder aches and mosquito bites
in this early summer heat,
but each turn of the pedal
draws you to me
like the cranking of a winch
tightening the sail of your boat
in the dream where you cross the lake
to the southern shore of my apartment
where the water rusts my bicycle.

shut!

This is my favorite poem ever.

Gray Room
Wallace Stevens

Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
And pick
At your pale white gown;
Or lift one of the green beads
Of your necklace,
To let it fall;
Or gaze at your green fan
Printed with the red branches of a red willow;
Or, with one finger,
Move the leaf in the bowl--
The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia
Beside you...
What is all this?
I know how furiously your heart is beating.

Wally.

Wally has his own twitter now. Such a narcissist.

http://twitter.com/WallyRhoades