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Janus is the God of Chaos.

Chaos is the opposite of order. splinters of wood tear apart ribbons of flesh, blood tears smear on lips and teeth, beautiful carnal ragged edges of love and betrayal and hatred and grief, man needs man and man needs no one. he makes art of me, i make him anew, silver down his tongue, metal curve through my flesh, carve your love into my heart, red trickles down my sides to stain the old golden floorboards, write it hard with burning scored ink in the deepest bleeding place of me. scarf reefs tight around my wrists, there’s nothing to fear, there’s everything to lose, all i knew and know and tell myself in the quietest terrified moments of dark early morning will be recoloured recast and rewritten. i kiss my judas, he bites me christ.

Chaos is the absence of order. Slam of bone against stone, breath slammed from body out through mouth into mouth. Sandstone crumbling a fraction more from the friction of fighting bodies, disintegrating like the unity that once existed, the intense everchanging fire of shared experience and shared intellect and shared sensibility that cooled and froze and sank below arctic waters of years passed.

There is nothing for the pale clear blue boy to do but snarl with his wound of a mouth. He’ll rewrite the world, one chord, one song, one rant at a time, and the man will be the footnote in his history, a scribble in the margin. Spiral star of flame and ice plunging soaring through the skies of ignorance and apathy, once they were twinstars, doctor and reverend, once it was two melodies overlapping, twirling in and out of each other’s chords, tripping ‘tween the notes and frets. There was order in the world then, it seemed a perfect clear path uphill ahead.

And then you turned your face.

Chaos is a kind of order. Pattern in the way footsteps tapped clear on the wooden floorboards, rang through the pure holy silence. There was the sense of sentences weaving together, a narrative structure narrowing invisibly down, invisible curves of coincidence drawn through boxes of life events, every box another month, another album, another relationship. And now the curves shimmer into a perfect spiral circling to this perfect terrible moment.

And ice white lightning doesn’t sear the air, strike the ground or burn the man with eyes like shattered slate and a fiendish mouth.

“There is no god.”