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k.o.d.a.k.
picture this. I’ll play the killer. 16 millimeter. ebony and ivory. the purest contrast. iris closed. open sesame. a screen of creamy white satin. on that wedding lap a white persian cat. a pale hand pets. milk purr. pan up slow. it’s me see. in a black silk suit. dark glasses. kid gloves. as sinister as the law allows. I’ve returned from the opera. prowl cat tom cat. if I’m male it doesn’t matter. I’m on the ledge. that’s a several story drop. how did I execute my brilliant cat walk? that’s up to you, franju. but there I am. perched on her window sill like a dirty bluebird. the back of my neck is wet. I sit there what seems for hours. a human chess game. she makes the first move. it’s quite simple. she gets up to adjust her sloppy stocking. her easter spikes could use some vaseline. her matt gesture is reflected in black patent leather. shoot to the ruffled vanity. mirror image. look at the kisser gazing from that mica. lipstick so thick you could carve your initials in it. no alias not me. my initials are PLS and I’d be pleased to leave my monogram. close-up shot of my steady fist. I’m cool as menthol, the kind of confidence one achieves thru an open nose. cocaine. I can do it. watch me raise my leather fingers. bluebeard itching for a fleshy white neck. I strike. she’s no match for me. the cold adhesive touch of the octopus. I remove my glove. struggle struggle. glub glub. she’s gone. as the opening credits roll up. the killer, swift as an athlete, is escaping. springing from roof top to roof top. racing against pyramid shapes into the black seine. search party music. the killer. 16 mm. black and white. g. franju. with patti smith. george franju. media me. shoot me on the kodak. I’ll do it for free.