A Monologue Written in Barista Coffeeshop, Kolkata, India


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Jul 1, 2006
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The Monologue by Wolf Larsen
Written in Kolkata (Calcutta), India

Hand pulled rickshaws in 2005 and endless stray dogs and hordes of people sleeping everywhere on the sidewalk at your feet – I am walking through the Kolkata (Calcutta, India) streets at 4:30 in the morning.

First day in Kolkata at 7:30 A.M.: the worst kind of traffic jam – you might as well get out and walk and you’ll get there faster! After 20 minutes of driving the taxi driver stops and asks somebody something in Bengali. The guy on the street turns to me and asks in English “The taxi driver wants to know where you want to go sir?”

I laugh and laugh. The taxi driver has been driving for twenty minutes with the meter running and he doesn’t even know where I’m going!
9:00 A.M.: I’m now sitting in Maidan park in Central Kolkata – a city of 13 million people. There’s herds of goats all around! Victoria Memorial floats there in the near distance. Already at 9 A.M. the smog is so horrible you can barely see anything in the near distance.

My hotel room is larger than a coffin. It’s not as filthy as the streets. At 7 yes seven dollars a night it’s a mid-range priced hotel.
I love the squalor. I love the hatred gesturing and squirming in the eyes of people everywhere. A city of ferocious ugliness it feels like a polluted jail cell crowded with 13 million people.

At 4:30 this morning I sat along a long bench with a group of “untouchable” day laborers waking up for more misery after sleeping on the sidewalk. In Kolkata hordes of people sleep on the sidewalks.
As I sat there they spat and coughed. Tuberculosis?

A conservative morality and a violent sensuality are bashing into each other wherever you look. The women look se!xy se!xy sexy!
I am humbled by old men hand-pulling rickshaws – they are gods – REAL gods.

I take all the blood and semen of the world and I wipe it all over you. The traffic is endless penises and vaginas squeezing up and down and through the streets. The streets fall over the moon.

A little baby giggles and lifts the street up. Then everybody becomes old while the baby becomes the sun. Huge planet-sized boulders begin falling all over the city. The streets begin growing out of a horse’s head. The evangelists preaching on T.V. begin growing out of your penis and soon thousands of evangelists are preaching a million miles an hour out of your penis. My penis. Your penis. Even the women are growing out of all the penises that are growing out of all the buildings that are growing out of all the planets. The planets are falling into your bathtub.

Then thousands and then millions and then billions of eyeballs and belly buttons begin bouncing from the moon to the earth and back again over and over all night long. Your brains ooze all over the planets. Nuclear missiles begin shooting out of your kitchen sink and into everybody’s brains.

I want everyone in the audience to begin vomiting poetry out of yourself. All that poetry searching and marching and breeding in your guts.

I decorate the words with grime and soot and filth – the flies delight and sin around each other the smells rumble through your nostrils the dirty children run through the streets like smiling rats…

Mountains of semen and begging old ladies and street children and the roaring of buses and the honking of cars and the waves and multitudes of people devouring the city.

The sky is dark with filth the sun hammers and hammers into your head the smiles of the people jump into your eyes.
I twist and shape the city with my hands like a huge psychotic pretzel and the women are as dark as a sweet milk coffee and gallons of eyeballs are falling all over you….

Copyright 2006 by Wolf Larsen