Journey to Darker, Wyoming with a Layover in a Land called “Dimpus” by None

[Author's Note: This is a poem about a fictional location, which was the subject of an abandoned story. I have recycled some elements from that unpublished story and used them in different stories (which I'll publish here). The poem is intentionally strange.]

There is a landmass that is orthogonal to reason.
It exists between the aether and phlogiston.
To get there, one must have been there before.
To return home, one must have never left.
The land is called Dimpus by none,
But is loved just as much.
The creatures who do not go are
Humans, Clinkebeans and Koepans,
Who would instantly fall apart due to
Interdimensional instability.
They are the only three three-dimensional sentient beings.
Common denizens of the land called Dimpus by none
Have six 14.721-dimensional parents
Which all love their children equally as much
With the exception of the anti-lunreght,
Who is incapable of love.
The Jesuits are an organization holding
Beliefs handed down to them by
Those creatures who do not hail from Dimpus,
Or at any rate do not call their land Dimpus,
For that is not where they live.
The Jesuits are master of mystical arts with a flare
Of Christianity and Judaism for good measure.
Like a real-life Jedi or Fremen,
Able to conquer the Sith Saudakar,
The Jesuits took Venice and Russia and Jerusalem
With no concern over whether or not the people
From the place not called Dimpus would care.
The people there did, but did nothing about it, as
Hank Founa (aka Frank Hrouna) opted to start
a University in Darker, Wyoming.
This college was not real, though was.
It had students (who were not actual people)
Aside from a Buddhist and a boy from west-Virginia
(clerical errors at best, due to the German shift of QWERTZ from QWERTY
Being applied to Dvorak).
All night, the night before, Hank formulated a language.
Founish was the name, though it was identical to English,
Which had not yet been invented.
Hank, speaking English, or Founish as the council decided,
sniffed non-Dimpus 123092-dimensional forsythia,
Enjoying the taste, smell, touch, sight, sound, vilrn and pardga
Of the horticultural wonder.
The gardeners would be praised.
As would the Tailors, who made suits of leisure from the forsythia threads
As would the censors, who made black bars of chastity from the forsythia threads
Founa, Hrouna, Frankly Hank, taught us many things when he wrote poems
Between one side of the paper and the other.
We could not read them, because they were
Not in our language
And Unable to be seen by us, being between the front and the back of the sheet
He dictated and translated the words for our Human, Clinkebean and Koepan minds
We shed tears of joy and passed out as if chloroformed by a divine handkerchief
From a cleanly kidnapper.
Hank told us of his parentage:
His mother (oedipal)
Father (electrical)
Sether (empirical)
Puther (felictical)
Qither (jamboranical)
And anti-lunreght (abusive)
We cried, though the tears flowed within, absorbing back into our tear ducts
Allowing us to cry some more.
He boarded his iridium space ship,
Stock with aether,
Cleaned with phlogiston,
Fueled and tuned like a well-oiled drum,
And threw a handful of elephantine burdocks at us,
Saying, “I love it when a plan comes together”
And he took Joseph. And he lit a cigar.
And the ship took off, folding ten times in twain.
And he returned to the place which no one called Dimpus
And taught Joseph in his ways.
Joseph unfortunately fell apart,
Until he met God
And Godot
And an Avatar of Krishna
And an Avatar of Wyoming
And the “Where’s The Beef” lady
And a weasel.
He visited a place I can never go,
A place where he can never leave
(He had always been there in the first place)
In the land called Dimpus by none,
But loved just as much.