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Extracted from the Scheintot LP, 1981. Photo by Ruby Ray Reveries pummel a prostrated son: riddled with shard and by the words scrawled on the outside of a letter bomb. On the edge of winter's gleaning I will take your little hand. C'mon I'll show you where they found those teenage girls with their heads dashed upon the rocks; then I'll slash your bedding to ribbons and bisect a scream. There are treatments and there are treatments and there are other compartments where they deal you so
