Author: Lara Popovic

Lara Popovic is a poet and visual artist living in London. Visit her website and follow her on tumblr.


I visit my analyst who never visits me.

Remove my boots and socks

and set my bag down in a room where two chairs have moved closer together.

Every week, the chairs; closer together by an inch.
And then, one day, further apart.

It is our seventeenth session.
I cry

Is this because there is no relationship without father?
Is this because I want to kill my father and eat his eyeballs?
Is this because I smell?
Is this because the source of all kindness is a

 “deep well of the soul and I am soulless like a death fiend fucking on my therapist’s entrails for a moment of sanctity from the goblin in the castle of EGO?”*

Lashes flutter in an open sweep of space
A weeping woman on a chair
Beneath a painting of a woman weeping

Once, I did myself in with a cross-stitch needle

That was how I prevented birth
There wasn’t much blood

The chairs walk themselves forwards
Again when I leave

A solitary moth is punching
The window by the exit door

Three wounds re-stitch themselves under my skin


The God Asclepius



When the soul separates from the body at death as if a long cord is cut, prehistorically the Death Maiden must come with her all-destroying all-creating hunger and take the soul with her to the next realm

I wrote cunt on a toilet wall and looked back on my life when I was thirteen years old.

I misspelt cunt:



Nada Theme 2 or “You said my name like rose bud and then you dumped me”.

Emily Dickson was proud of her writing table.  It was square. She had profound thoughts upon her writing table. I am alone. I am in deep longing. I am in pain. I am single. I am from 1830. She had many other profound thoughts which she wrote down as poems.

Walt Whitman was fond of his beard.  He whistled many songs through his beard and had profound thoughts such as I have a beard. I am alone. I am gay. I am old. I am single. I am from 1819.

How to play a piano or any other musical instrument:

Four Bar C

A conceptual idea of pain:  A chair and some rugs tossed in a corner, suspended chairs and three wires to resemble roses as in a rose is a rose is a rose and you said my name like rose bud and then you dumped me with a cat’s play thing and three oranges made of purple wax with orange stickers on them to conceptualise oranges on the upper floor of a gallery space preferably in New York or Los Angeles but alright in Cork.

An abstract painting of pain: Black swirl. Red line. Blue line. Deep vermillion smudges. Cadmium edging. Black dash. Brown dash. Black dash. Brown dash. Red dot.

A photograph of pain: A tub of water on a floor in Paris: black and white.

This is largely of quotations.

Basho was attached to his hut.