To the East of Eden

[This is an excerpt from a much longer poem] is there a garden to the east of eden out there in nod, the harsher badlands, where cain built his hut out of clay, grew his gardens, planted his seeds and ploughed his soil, while ripening all around a blossoming nature, breathing with the fair oxygen of immanence? if so, surely, that is where i should be; that is where i should live my life - and better yet, surely it can outcompare even the babylonian botany, with its beautiful, scandent flowerwork - the awesome vines of hammurabi clinging and climbing abound all over the city-walls - the land of nod weeps over the garden so luscious with the hebenon and paved with the glistening moonstone, fountained with the wine old as death - the wine which gurgles upforth from the mouth of the abyss. will gods' carrion-flower breathe anew, and if so, will death even die with its unfold? land of nod, dark waste of wild nod - will i hurt my feet on the nettles and the thistles of truth? yeah, probably i will hurt my feet; not even dantes' footsteps are longer visible in the mud before me.