“No rules exist” - André Breton
“Words build bridges into unexplored regions” – attributed to Adolf Hitler
nazisploitation surrealisme (exercise one)
Naked! standing in profile to schafer, the window. she seemed not to know schafer could clearly see the outline of her room. he was dressed in military uniforms. as braun pulled on his hair, forcing his my attention!”
schafer watched in virgins of the rhine, by the banned author between her fingers, pulling tightly. – the mark of her knuckles was visible through her fine, strong legs. her sudden rumours – only rumours! – of this it was the eyes that drew schafer, that head in between her legs. “eat me, you the swastika glistened on his armband. watched the assemblage of objects lying on demented child. suddenly and without countless millions!
schafer felt his connected with the fuhrer’s face with a her hand flew through the air and triangle and of her small, firm schafer saw hitler’s face twist in pain “degenerate filth! how dare you demand with iron self-control, a man in charge himself!
“eva,” hitler said, and savagely across the face, and he cried completely – as if he were just a member ached painfully, still tormented by braun reached for the desk and schafer hidden behind the mirror, he could see the the fuhrer, the supreme leader of germany, fell to his knees. “don’t hurt me hitler’s hair and caught it sharply man!
it must be eva braun, absolutely – but of the destiny of made him pull back, in horror and schafer – shocked him to his very golden fuzz of her triangle peeking her summer dress. underneath it she was building.
it was adolf hitler hitler could speak she whipped him her high heels, braun reached for core!
“eva!” hitler screamed, like a admiration. the eyes exerted a hypnotic was behind it. she was examining herself in angry red spots on the fuhrer’s warning the young blonde woman whipped the long hours on the plane satisfying the was pacing, nervously, up and down the was a mere rumour, a shadow flitting at woman was blonde, petite, and pretty. she savagely across the face. “silence!” resounding crack!
schafer cowered behind watch as the fuhrer began to lap at eva in it as if it were a mirror. it must be a the edge of reason.
“eva!” hitler looking at herself in the mirror with a and a short-cropped black moustache. but the one-way mirror, ignoring the fuhrer incomprehension, sure that, at any moment, blonde woman still applying her make up in she suddenly reached down and pulled up the mirror as the fuhrer fell back from applying a smidge of red lipstick to her would rise to punish this woman who dared smile, and as hitler came up for air pull on you, they drew you and repulsed europe; and a tea mug.
braun reached, breasts.
behind her, pacing restlessly, a woman was standing directly in front of schafer could see braun’s engorged lips, out.
“vermin!” eva braun shouted. was a man.
he was short and swarthy. stole down to between his legs, where his worm!” she said. schafer could only full, luscious lips. she wore a summer around and – terribly! impossibly! – her legs were bare and smooth and through the impossible.
and yet –
hitler was studying her reflection critically, over his forehead, he had a prominent nose mysterious woman. hitler’s lover, it was stiletto heeled shoes that lifted her up topped by a paperweight; a walking cane braun’s private garden. she turned, eva braun. she had backhanded him savagely draped curiously, like a shawl or a wig, open in a snarl of rage; a paperback book, cheek.
braun stalked forward and schafer schafer stared, fascinated, at the lithe you equally. they were the eyes of a man never written of in the newspapers – she above the fuhrer’s own small stature. filled with pens; a handgun; a map of with a silver wolf’s head, its mouth sadistic luftwaffe woman. standing tall on again! please!”
braun slashed him looked down at you from every under his short black hair, which was not only of his own destiny – wholly and unerringly, for the horse whip. before said. but she was never seen in person, “eva!”
what happened next shocked the thin material of the dress schafer now saw she was wearing, on her feet, high chancellor of germany, supreme leader of heart beating like a caged bird in his it. a horse whip; a pile of paperwork nudity shocked him. unconsciously his hand the aryan people, the man whose face chest. it was the fuhrer!
it was the schafer thought, awed. he had heard one-way mirror, schafer realised. the dress, incongruous at this high altitude. moist and dripping from the fuhrer’s and degenerate sebastian bruce; a cup saliva.