Tim Buckley

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Monterey

Tim Buckley

Under a loop of stars in the vulgar cold
The dead airport lay
By the pebbles of the highway
Through the snail clouds
You soared to your lover
I hurried away my darling
With a howl in my throat.
Hiding inside the weeds
In the orange grove,
The black rooster crowed
Through the hollow of the midnight.

With my shot blood,
With stains on my fingers,
I run with the damned, my darling:
They have taught me to laugh.

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