In the old days, the myths were the stories
we used to explain ourselves. Well how can
we explain the way we hate ourselves, the
things we've made ourselves into, the way
we break ourselves, into the way we over-complicate ourselves.

But we are still mythical.
We are still permanently trapped,
somewhere between the heroic and
the pitiful.
We are still godly.
That’s what's made us so monstrous, but it feels
like we've forgotten that we are much
more than the sum of the things that
belong to us.

The empty skies rise over
the benches where the old men sit.
And they are desolate and friendless and
young men spit, and inside they are
delicate, but outside they are reckless.
And I reckon these are our heroes. These
are our legends. The face on the street
you walk past without looking at it, the
face on the street that walks past you
without looking back, the man in the
supermarket trying to keep his kids out
of his trolley, the woman by the park
bench struggling with her body.
Every single person has a purpose in them
burning. Look again. Allow yourself to see;
them. Millions of characters each with
their own epic narrative. Singing ’it's
hard to be an angel until you've been a
demon.'

The sky is so perfect it looks like
a painting. But the air is so thick that
we feel like we're fainting.
Still, the myths in these cities have always said
the same thing. About how all we really
need; is a place to belong. And how
all we really want; is to know what's
right, from what's wrong.
And how we all need to struggle to find out for
ourselves which side we are on.
We all need to love, and be loved, and keep going.

And alright; there's no monsters to kill,
there’s no dragon’s teeth left for the sowing.
But what there is, are these muttering
nutters. What there is, is the,

[unintelligible]
Is what we have. What we have here
is a [?]. I'm freaked out by the
importance of what I feel I’m saying.
Suddenly I can visualize that this is not the
poem. I could just visualize all, these people listening.
(Thank you)
Because what we have here, is a brand new mythic palette.
You know, the parable of the mate you had,
he could have been anything. But he
turned out an addict. Or the parable of
the probable father returned after years
in the wilderness.
Our morality has learned to our experiences. Gained in
these cities in all of their rage and their tedium.
And yes, our colors are muted and grey.
But our battles are staged all the same
We are still mythical.
Call us by our names.
We are perfect because of our imperfections.
We must stay patient, we must stay hopeful.
We must stay patient,
Because when they excavate the modern day, they'll find us:
The brand new ancients.

Man all that we have here, is all that we've always had.
We have jealousy, tenderness, curses and gifts.
But the plight of the people who
have forgotten their myths and imagine
that somehow now is all that there is.
Is a sorry plight; all isolation and
worry. The life in your veins it is godly. Heroic.
You were born for greatness.
You can believe that, you can know it, you
can take it from the tears of your poets.
There has always been heroes. There has
always been villains. Yes, the stakes may
have changed, but really there's no difference.
There’s always been heartbreak, greed and ambition
Bravery, love, trespass and contrition.
We are the same beings that began,
still living. In all of our fury and foulness and friction.
These are everyday odysseys.
We have dreams, we make decisions.

The stories are there if you listen.
The stories are here,
the stories are you and your fear.
And your hope, is as old as the language of smoke.
The language of blood.
The language of languishing love.
The gods are all here because the gods are in us. (ah)
The gods are in the betting shops.
The gods are in the caf.
The gods are smoking fags out the back.
The gods are in the office blocks.
The gods are at their desks.
The gods are sick of always giving more and getting less.
The gods are at the rave now. They're two pills deep into dancing.
The gods are in the alleyways laughing.
The gods are at the doctors,
they just need a little something for the stress.
The gods are in the toilets having unprotected sex.
The gods are in the supermarket.
The gods are walking home.
The gods can't stop checking Facebook their phones.
The gods are in a traffic jam.
The gods are on a train.
The gods are watching adverts.
The gods are not to blame.
The gods are working for the council.
The gods are on the dole.
The gods are getting drunk, pissing their wages down a hole.
The gods are in their gardens and they're staring at the plants.
The gods are in the classrooms,
those poor things don't stand a chance.
The gods are trying to tell the truth,
but the truth is hard to say.
The gods are born they live a while and then, they pass away.

They're in a crowded street,
it's too much, they feel sick.
Yeah sure, there must be more to life but they don't know what it is. These gods have got no Oracles to translate their requests.
These gods have got a headache,
a payment plan and stress about when next they'll see their kids.
They are not fighting over favorites.
They are just getting on with it.

They are; the brand new ancients.