Links To My Print Books On Amazon.Co.UK – Prices in £, $, €

My Print Books On Amazon.Co.UK

Prices in £  – The Lost Canadian, Vol.1   £9.21  – The Lost Canadian, Vol.2   £9.21 And Paroles   £8.44  – Celestial Migrations In The Empire   £8.44  – All These Being Hinterlands –   £8.44  – The Lost Neighbourhood –   £8.44  – Measuring Gravity By Grace –   £8.44  – Our Geographies –   £8.44  – The Transits Of Revelation –   £9.21  – Baker’s Bad Boys –   £6.91  – Tormenting The Monkey –   £8.44 & How It Gets That Way –   £6.91  – Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic –   £8.44 Harold’s Adventures In The Real World –   £6.91  – The Mythologies Of Love –   £8.44  – Dark Earth –   £8.44  – The Eschatological Dog –   £8.44  – The Moon Worn Tides –   £8.44  – Soliloquies Of The Horizon –   £8.44 Riparian Fields –   £8.44  – Silence Louder Than A Train –   £8.44 Gods Of Apparent Decline –   £9.21

For all those who have expressed interest in buying my books: lower prices.

Books Priced in Canadian $ – Links

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(c)Dean J. Baker


for Logan

Our conversations in still moments, despite
what some might say is gone, your body being
here, continue. Your delight unceasing guides
toward an ever-present gift: how this shines
against the shadows only such light will lift.

That you always knew and carried the cost
never in doubt: what could be saved narrowly lost,
you preserve of the best and bright,
regardless of the overwhelming torrent of thoughts.

Others as sensitive towards you as they persist
towards themselves a practical impossibility.
Held now forever by those who care, you endure.

Your soul stands out, the great heart of being
neither wrong nor unfair, declares:
what always counts is that you love, however unprepared.

©Dean J. Baker October 18, 2005 – January 25, 2020

Drifting Into War

We were drifting into war. There never had to be any special reason.

We, drifting into war; married and divorced, looking for nothing more: and nothing was apparent. Everything happened simultaneously.

This was no mere divergence of opinion, not a simple differing between various souls; this conflagration of passions buried too long and misdirected in a fatal simplicity.

A necessary tension embraced us all. Immediately prior to the release there existed a sense of community, still. As if a shell, or canopy of night were drawn over the world.

That became the diamond-hard pressure; exerting its scroll across the history held too close within the heart of the human animal once again.
And again.

We were drifting into war. This never implied any sort of vigilance or lack, only a sense of communal conscience.

So, don’t tell me. Don’t haste.


©Dean J. Baker

-excerpt from Fat Albert’s Outpatient Folk Clinic   … A coffeehouse, café as society

Prose poems that are a paean to Musicians, Writers, Artists, & Wingnuts…. from a review..”Acid wit, deep insight, humor, powerful metaphor, intelligence…. A smooth ride on a bumpy road, with side trips into unseen hollows of the human experience…. What else do you need to know? An excellent read, worth sharing far and wide… More, please….”

is our poet of the future.”



The Stupid

The Stupid are easily provoked into self-righteousness. It’s better than bells on cows or sheep.
They lemming walk through reaction on every stage in which they speak, forgetting to read or think.

Experts everywhere in everything, they delight Islamicists, The Russia, their fellow bullies all asleep. They become what they hate: feminists will replace the patriarchy in their adolescent glories, their whips velvet striped.

Critics, purveyors of what resembles literature, cultural dictators bleeding for a heel to kiss: oh please, accept these deranged philosophies as our bliss. We is individuals, you see.
Yas, we be inagaddadaviduals.

Abandoned by the absence of intellectuals, the learned stooges’ committee guaranteeing poo-etry as the real thing when it’s merely verbal graffiti resulting in declines of awareness, discipline, and cognizance as a resentful rebellion against the maroons in suits all anal-bound and Stalinesque. Silly kids, such Piggies all island bought.

We be not Elizabethan, dey says, denying Shakespeare. We be The New Grammarians, never so ironic as to believe if only the past is seen, the present obscene, then we makes new worlds. Oh Vladimir & Josef, dis is the jerkers’ paradise where everything is eliminated in an excremental void.

If you don’t believe, we kill you proudly. Look what you made us do.

The new chain gang, the sweet fizz of righteous lumbering towards Bethlehem: the sweet beast of mass-turbapurgatory fascism awakes.

Won’t you join our circle game: snake in the ass end of these reindeer games, satisfaction in these black holes of falling through into nothingmess.
Patient wheel-chaired in the hallway of the recuperation facility of history barely mouthing through drool and deranged simplicities, ‘Won’t somebody he’p me pleasssssssse, thrrrrrrrp.’

©Dean J. Baker Gods Of Apparent Decline  121 pages – <- not you by any means so do not buy, freeload these poems cause you knows too much

There Is A War On, Raging






Stupid times. Immigrants before native-born poor, kids, and vets: the disadvantaged.
Criminals in charge and debates about it, rather than action. The media costuming everything in the form of their agenda. No free press untainted by egomaniacs.
People swept up in the importance of having their say without addressing the need to investigate to the core the so-called sources.
If God is anything, a higher power, a great being, then it is made manifest in people. We thus worship poorly while perversely maintaining an iron grip on a status quo since change is desired but frightening.
We betray ourselves.

Consuming everything, talking about it all without a sense of import or invocation, they lie. Achievements measured in degrees, or jobs – nothing done without the marketplace in mind. Passion a deed of sexualized innuendo dissipating everything even as it may falsely satisfy.
Our gods the blonde leading the bland. Seduction is candy for we, the children. Our desires misplaced, our yearning corrupt, our aims gathered by Cyclops, the one-eyed king in charge of the monstrous which we fail to annihilate.

How to stop. How to begin. Lies of skid-row idiots. Fearful of death and unable to die. Reborn to Hollywood and its lowest common denominator again. The family. The wistful girl. The innocents everywhere. Monsters abandoned in horror stories, or serialized in fantasies of vengeance.
“The gun, Jimmy, the gun.” Broke-dick mountain, indeed.

The storm gathering. The weeds shifting. Something in the alien corn. The Tower of Babel worshiped.

The costume of plenty. The scarecrow of reality stuffed with anxieties as a substitute for deeds. Oh God, hear our prayer as a voodoo for growth altering everything.
Towns burning with the corrupt, cities a blazing, the deserts the only fertile fields left for cherishing.

The crops are stained, the buildings all aflame with weasels of opportunities mislaid. Oh we know evil when we see it, don’t we.

There is a war on, raging.

©Dean J. Baker

-excerpt from Provenances And Paroles, 2015, <- click here to buy for $5.99, 91 pages

Turd Burglars

a rupi for your non-thoughts

If poetry, art and perspective,
was meant
was meant to be
sort, stunted, stutterings
to be taken
metawhorically by minds
unconcerned, dismissive of

what craft can bring
expressive of a mental decline
displaying high signs
pretentious to higher worth
of learning, fine tuning ability
of sight and sound
thus understanding

no difference would be
between the quibblers of
misdirection in language
literary traffic police
causing clash and crash
for cash

than those excremental
artistes scribbling visions
on shithouse walls
while believing those who read
those words of wit
rolled into little balls, resigned
should eat those little balls of shit

now designed

©Dean J. Baker

Past Boundaries

In the photograph several aunts, uncle,
fathers, mothers, children stand alive
where another world survives outside
the lines of old school lives, jobs and defiant
strife contained in concrete times, as if

Existence, a whippoorwill’s breath after
song, gone from accident, disease
and age, no homes left nor acquaintances
to bring together what’s unsaid in all
the silences where past the photograph

The music sings of an unknown chorus, and
foreign background minus noises amid
the swirl and fog of objects tossed throughout
inert gases and emptiness which abound
until we come to this and everything changes

©Dean J. Baker

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pictured above: The Moon Worn Tides, Vol.1, The Prose Poems, , 120 pages, $13.99, ebook $7.99