from a forthcoming book… ‘Academician Lomonsov’

for Litvinenko, Politkovskaya, Nemtsov








did not foresee a floating, disembodied
choke of technology
supplying 200,000, only refueling every
3 years while serviced every 12
and replaced in a mere two generations

and all for lease as population explodes
murdering the earth and sea, as climate change
becomes the new mythology letting loose
the Frankenstein Mallivirus siberium; witnessed
under microscopes in its gigantium brave

where all still rant and rave, rave and rant
disappointed none will cave to bless
them with superiority as vacation, or small
change from their vaunted inferiority

it’s the Arctic, our new warzone, floating
top of the world, Ma
there nuclear power plants like planets ghost
the civilization done drifting apart
foul ice breaks assuming a control that is not

waiting for a spill, in this
Third World War platform bringing all
together in Asiatic Russian and North American
chill, searching out the longevity of
Bacillus F*
that fountain rumored and hinted at
by those explorers and the liars knowing better

looking elsewhere again, Cortez
that Keats* knew and Beatles sang, with
neither eliciting
amid the fumes and flames and fright

there Academician Lomonsov does not
bother with Baryshnikov, nor the unexpected majesty of
Nureyev a-lift above the stage in

Sleeping Beauty to meet Karen Kain across ages
not meant merely for feet nor an unripe Tchaikovsky
while we anticipate ourselves in everything now
drifting into the business of war we have not left:
one more infection suspending the planet again


©Dean Baker

-excerpt from a forthcoming book – click the links below for more information

* Academician Lomonsov – floating for-rent nuclear power station

* Litvinenko



*Anatoli Bruchkov

*Keats’ On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer

• my books –
















from a forthcoming book… ‘Portrait Of A Society’


When they want to fight and die
if necessary to make a point
we talk and debate and protest

Already enemies, the need is not
for greater understanding
or greater elimination of threats

The threat is we sit paralyzed
while they act
government inadequacy subsidizes

Terror acts overt and quiet, so
at the next act of outrageousness
don’t plead or pray for change

Don’t bandage the wounds arising
from scars laid like map-work inside:
decide your journey ahead of time

You who react and fret, make
statements that do not protect but
delay any alteration except to save

Your position need to surrender
to the fact of your uselessness while
around you slaughter carries onward

In this broken crusade against intelligence,
rational thought combined with
emotion not caught up in prolonged idiocy

Break up with your selves, become those
whom not even evil would challenge
not these bleating ghosts already sacrificed

They do not act alone, without your
implied, or provincial consent:
live dangerously for those you say you love

©Dean Baker


from Dark Earth… ‘Conjugation’

This is the way we make love –
Words back and forth, innocent
Repartee and almost hidden
From ourselves, but she knows
I wouldn’t quit; she’s ideal, and

Though we might never meet
She could say yes any day; I’d be
More than ready every way, my
Vowels in place for greater conjugation:
Literature, my aim and obligation

©Dean Baker


from Of Flesh Sculptures And Abandoned Love… ‘Insomnia 2’

This is the world at 6 a.m. when I am unasleep.
No one to whom I can speak, I smoke endlessly,
drinking water in peace, not subject to the night creatures.

I pay the freight for memories I can no longer afford, which
have become too expensive to keep. I wage a war against
scientists altering their opinions every generation, and
when the shift changes I am on strike against nothing.

Baffled by the culture of opinion for not noticing
I have been singing them out of the maze they
constantly reconstruct for decades, unsurprised they
would rather judge than love, since that is their place
in this Book Of Grudges they call society now.

I know that if by error they happen to read this poem, they
will be on my side and want to seek out those bastards of whom I speak.
If I could tell them, I might join in that glorious hunt.

I thought once there might have been someone in the
darkness, who was calling my name, eager to be found. Yet
it turns out there are many things in which I am mistaken.

They never said they do not want to harm me, and for that
latent honesty I am mostly grateful. I still do not believe we
have anything mutual to discuss and acknowledge.
At least until the next mistake is engraved, my name featuring prominently.

Where they sleep now is my territory, and I can be counted on
to lead them from their silent fears across the plains of night:
encouraging them to leap, allowing that they ought to dream
of sheep who fly off cliffs without knowing they too will awake.

©Dean Baker

..from BLOOD UPON THE MOON.. ‘Karla, Monster’

image from twitter account







Poor Paul. All he could do was rape. What a thrill
to subjugate. Karla whispered to him, ‘I like to eat
pussy, you know. You can be king, deciding fates.
I will be the Queen of their souls.’ Paul was decided.

Previously all he had done was rape and beat, now
he’d have some fun. Own the instruments of doom,
be their final sun who would love him so: his wife,
mother to the squall of children, would make him right.

To kill, to take the life possessed; absorb the sweet
trembling flesh into his own: finally, born again. All
by the sexy frau revealing greatness: what he’d
been missing by strike and run, rabbit. Gone, again.

Poor stupid Paul. Karla ruling after all. In charge
of schemes where he’d be set to take the major blame.
Misled, beaten, so what the hell: the prizes a once
in a lifetime gift that didn’t have to be replaced.

Solicitous, knowing innocence, hooking fish. Come
with me and see the world of my malignant cunt,
she’d think. I’ve done my sister but the bitch died.
So maybe repeated death repays that mistake.

Sweet blonde, for whom to eat was to die. Feed
that twat like I’d eat your breath. Queen Tarantula
in the web of bliss where slaves obey: yet
disbelieved, must by King Paul’s rope strangulate.

And afterwards shaken up eliciting tears and muff,
men trolled in clubs while cops powerless watch. The beaten
girl in the skirt, the evil bride: o holy slut, you lie.
Put on trial by men who rush to judgement, then she smiles.

Prison camp and more muff. Any who aren’t tough
enough, she’ll rule til they choose or die. Another idiot
afterwards giving children; a paradise of life in
the Caribbean, perhaps Quebec, ticked away in suburbia.

Those girls aren’t women. Even her sister, amidst the
stupid Paul’s crimes. Karla knows the masque complete,
her existence a taunt of defeat, eating ordinariness. Listen,
you can hear her laugh same as when those kids died.

She breathes, she enjoys, the dresses up.
Seductively pleasing, hooked one more willingly who’s
complicitous. Of course it can’t be we’re guilty, too
that she’s on top of the world, minus common work.

But this does please her to be known, alive
with her victims dust. You and I undone, she just hasn’t
yet gotten around to: so sufficient that we rage inside,
against the night she brings to choke the life out of us.

©Dean Baker


*Paul is Paul Bernardo. Former Scarborough rapist never caught; met Karla Homolka and married. She’d volunteer for ‘his’ ideas to kidnap, torture and sexually abuse teenage schoolgirls.
They also killed her sister by feeding her drugs while Karla had sex with her.
They videotaped it all. Hid the tapes in their house. He was caught; she suspected, with detectives – and journalists present in clubs -watching for days she still picked up men for casual sex.
The government made a deal with her pleading a victim of his: the innocent bride beaten up and manipulated, because the cops did not find the tapes in their house til afterwards.
Given that he raped and ran, did not kill, it’s believed through evidence of the tapes she manipulated him into willful events, and really was in charge of the schemes and murders and didn’t mind taking some beatings to establish that as a fact.
He got life. She did a plea deal for 12 years.
She’s out living in the open, with children. And in the news again.

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..from In Riparian Fields… ‘Hives’


Stupid non-entities,
likely illiterate, searching for power,
with no identities
surrendering to Mohammadans
or Jaysus
or even Boo, Dah

While every government in the
West holds us captive,
occupying minds with trivial
pursuits, some report as news
are not necessarily evil
but reflect

Where we’re all headed, once
the command arrives
to start learning Mandarin,
get back into that hive: see
without cash
the Emperor’s hiring everybody

To be on his side, since
nobody got the hand-written
message in a bunch of books; old
poetry you know,
even the poet was never so wise
to assume truth to be specific, or

Told without the associated lies
would not encourage belief in a book
or an ego as a substitute for life
where you’d discover a prize, but said
hey look
there are lambs and wolves and noise

Listen to the silence –
not quiet, not the absence of a dementia
not in some bereft of inspiration denial
or rabid embrace of mindless holy hysteria:
forget Hollywood
its fun house of slanted mirrors and instant

Revelations of communication
where nobody says anything worth hearing anyway –
don’t even recall that still small voice,
that’s the dwarf you’re sitting on
it’s only in one moment, dismissed as

Where you piled insights on waiting for
the payoff; the goods to be delivered
and nothing was understood, nor
brought forward to finalize:
the costs of avoiding what you always know
is no surprise, anyway

©Dean Baker

..from a forthcoming book…. ‘Progressive’


Not who you say you are or not –
myself the same
without reference to abilities,
those being at times merely subjective
each thing witnessed a choice:
your appointment begins
with every denial of death crowding in

Voices chanting no or yes –
only offering clues to another lie
or truth;
guidelines or fences, bridges to burn,
the sacrifice unguessed:
in the renewal where you turn again
to meet yourself now unblessed

©Dean Baker