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 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