Kubla Doubla

by CWK

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
a state pleasure dome decree.
He built it on the backs of pawns
who could not see,
but worked as slaves in icy caves,
if only for a fee.

When Alph the sacred river ran,
across the ancient hills --
prehending prophecies fulfilled --
Kubla set in stone his will
to raise a dome from blood and sand:
a dome to prove his glory grand --
A sight! Sublime! Delight! O, Thrill! --
a dome that would forever stand;
a dome to make his heirs stand still,
and trill, "Man is measured by this man!"

Such and such, and much, did Kubla plan,
and the people gladly toiled for him.
Weighty was his vision, and their provision slim,
but still they carried -- in thirsty hands --
the dread of his dreams, the love of his demands.
Even as their feet cracked on craven sand --
still, they carried stone upon stone, band after band,
across the deep romantic chasm which slanted
wherever they went, forever as they went
homeward toward banishment,
from a paradise forgotten,
to a paradise forsaken.

Unto Kubla's glory, they gave their days and children.
Like unto a dulcimer, they chanted in the wind,
"Unto Kubla be all majesty!"
"All praise to Kubla be!"
"May His pleasure dome ascend!"
And so it did, upon the backs of blind men
who could not see
they worked as slaves in icy caves --
if only for a fee;
if only for a fee.

Their fee? Security.
To make supply of their demand,
Kubla kept them constant scared.
Their fears were harnessed in his hands
as nightly he devised nightmares
of coming crises in their land.
He forecast foreboding famine
-- which never came to be --
but this threat went unexamined,
even as the workmen waned lean,
'til hunger stalked them like a fiend.
Fear was their diet; fear was his mien.

Even as the people slaved for him,
they thought they fought the system.
All the while, Kubla smiled.
For, the system was them.
They were the system.
The system without was within them.

Each morn, they rose hapless, happily,
to pleasant perfume of incense-bearing tree.
Each day, they slaved serene, in hopeful apathy.
Sometime, they weary grew, and slumbered
beside the sacred river, on sunny greenery.
'Twas then, Kubla thundered,
and they awoke with cries and pleas,
and begged for leniency.
They grew small, but never humbler --
but I was never of their number:
I roamed, alone, but free.

Their lives commenced quickly
upon a clumsy cosmic dare.
Their days proceeded limply:
their labor was hard, unshared --
but they were hardened from infancy
such labors long to bear.
Their lives ended slow and dismal,
while flowing imperceptible and gently,
down to a sunless sea:
from a paradise abysmal
unto darkened destinies.
I was never one of them;
but every one of them was me.

They considered themselves rebels
upon momentous mission.
They considered all their revels
slight crimes: no sooner committed, forgiven.
For Kubla, all gracious, all powerful
had power, on earth, to pardon sin.
As the years commenced,
the people's sins grew fierce and full,
and Kubla, judging forgiveness daily dull,
declared most sins long hence annulled.
For Kubla, all gracious, all powerful,
The Beginning and The End,
made laws for gods and men.

They thought they fought the system.
But, for all their clinched fists,
they were too hasty to notice,
the system was them.
They were the system.
The system was the secret kept;
they cursed Kubla's mysticism,
but at night, under Kubla's care, they slept.
All the while, the system was the secret kept.
They did not fight it; they fed it --
they stoned me when I said it.

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
a state pleasure dome decree.
He built it on the backs of pawns
who could not see,
but worked as slaves, in icy caves,
if only for a fee.
Their fee? Security.
They thought they fought the system,
but the system was them:
the system without was within them.

I was never one of them,
but every one of them was me.