True Love 
by Ian Watson
"I love you," he said deceitfully, 
"Let us become of one flesh!" 
So off they went to the body shop 
Where he exchanged his left arm for hers 
--A popular token of bonding 
(Sometimes an eye for an eye, 
Sometimes a thigh for a thigh). 
How sleek the arm he stroked 
That night with his right hand 
As he lay alone in bed. Next week, 
Since she was deeply in love, 
They exchanged both legs. 
One on its own would have caused 
Imbalance. Her breasts came next, 
Transferred to his chest. 
By the time they had swapped 
More body parts, he was her, 
She was him, except in the head. 
At last exquisitely and repeatedly 
He could make love to himself instead. 

Surgeons of the Soul
by Ian Watson
You have a new blot on your soul. 
We shall cut you open and excise this. 
Through my psychoscope I see your soul 
Is now within your left testicle. 
A fairly simple procedure, today's, 
Though admittedly fairly painful 
Since an operation on the soul 
Requires the patient to be fully aware, 
As you're aware from previous procedures 
On your left eye and your tongue. 
Be glad that your soul has not slipped 
Into your heart or brain or bowels. 
So far, at least, your own soul lurks 
Not deep within but near the surface. 
Praise to the diagnostic monitors, 
Mounted in most public doorways, 
Which bring such taints to attention 
For mandatory remedy. In past ages 
Pollution was rife and may have gone 
Undetected for years, even lifelong. 
Prior to the operation let us pray 
To God Whom the soul apprehends! 
Without a soul how could we know 
The mystery of God or His Adversary 
Who causes the soul to blemish? 
Praise be for instruments that allow us 
To detect, clamp, and mend the soul 
Made of shadow-matter which shares 
Space with any part of our body 
Now here now there, drifting around, 
Always somewhere within us confined 
By the gravity of our life-force 
Until we die and it can fly away. 
Undress, mount the table, lie back, 
Submit to the straps and the gag. 
Purity through surgery, my friend. 

Universe Zoo
by Ian Watson
We've heard that universes evolve 
In a Darwinian way by natural selection, 
Each star that collapses into a black hole 
Begetting a new cosmos beyond the hole, 
Its values differing slightly from the parent 
Universe--just slightly, mark you, not vastly. 

Only a cosmos that spawns many holes 
Creates many offspring--and holes 
On the whole require stars of a certain size. 
A fast breeder universe cannot simply 
Be filled, balloon-like, with hydrogen. 
Only a complex cosmos quite like ours 
Can reproduce, with minor variations. 

I wonder whether another universe 
May differ from our own abode 
As an ape differs from a Roman, 
As a llama from a horse or a camel. 

Maybe there are giraffe universes 
Where you can see all the way to forever. 
Fierce tiger universes, where 
Prowling comets pounce on worlds, 
Annihilating life wherever it arises. 
Timid rabbit universes, meek and mild, 
Where the denizens overbreed 
And eat everything in sight. 

The metaverse must be quite a zoo: 
Each beast confined to a separate cage, 
No interaction possible, unless 
A paw can claw through a gap 
Or perhaps a long thin tentacle. 

That's why we have a zodiac. 
The heavens seen as a bestiary, 
A crab here, a bull there, 
A dragon, a peacock, a scorpion. 
What we really ought to do is 
Join up the dots of stars differently 
In the outlines of alien beasts: 
The Skrim, the Ghoul-Wraith, 
The Krakkat, the Yarquil. 

I begin with eight thousand dots 
And innumerable possibilities. 
Somehow I shall map the metaverse 
And my pencil will poke a hole 
From our cage, into otherness. 

All poems this page copyright © Ian Watson Used by Permission All Rights Reserved Worldwide.