Everyday Is Like Sunday

I´m never bored, but my Sunday song is expressing boredom and suppression. The boring holiday in a seaside town is a spiritual place to reflect the boredom where everyday is like Sunday.

All the shops are closed and there's nothing to do. It´s raining outside, winter season, I´m naked on my bed, I feel naked and alone. I wish that my boredom could just be wiped away by a nuclear explosion and made rid of. Somebody had to come up with the best song you've ever heard to express smooth unhappiness and boredom, which also cleverly makes fun of typical holidays. Who etches a postcard, “How I Dearly Wish I Was Not Here”, replacing the typical “Wish You Were Here” with a romantick tac tick tac Love message more honest, I LOVE YOU!!!

Sunday, bleak, having a faded melancholy about it, like going to church, is inevitably full of sorrow, no matter how hard one tries to escape despair. Life and death are equally disappointing. Only Love is exciting at all times, I have chosen it. Love has actually chosen me. I can whine like a screwed beach all I want, but I´m the luckiest and happiest man I have always or never been. Enjoying the mushroom cloud. No matter surviving such a nuclear attack is much worse than being killed instantly. For better.

There´s this aftermath of the nuclear war. The quiet boredom that accompanies me in a sleepy town on a Sunday. Greased tea, anyone? I´m being so British, dirty tea is delicious, an indirect reference to the gritty-like atmosphere of an industrialized city. Am I not abandoned and in an incomplete state of decay? I miss you so much. With a British accent, though you know I´m a pirate, your favorite. Maybe it was me who stole your perfect red dress you saved for Prince Charming, Rapunzel, or the Turkish Aphrodite, the Romance Venus, or the Sleeping Beauty in it.

A passionate artist, I create a great feeling of loss and violation. The trivial mention of Armageddon and a nuclear bomb suggests a whining longing for some kind of destruction or change to end the beautiful monotony and sadness of life in the phun & phuck seaside town. Every day, people are doing dull things, going on holiday, buying stooopit things, doing the unstuck, being silly, having tea - normal things. It´s not about hating those things, hating the important banality of normal life, angry at the world. No, it´s not. It´s about loving those things, yep, yup, yet on Sundays doing stuff just gets “a little bit” complicated. It´s just normal melancholy and bitter unhappiness. Nothing suicidal or homicidal, LOL! Sometimes life just feels grey, silent, cold when you are depressed and hot. No matter what goes on in the outside world, on the inside it's still grey and lonely. Blue art. I´m creating blue art. To be shown in another post.

Why do I repeat the depressing phrases “everyday is like Sunday” and “everyday is silent and grey“? You tell me, you´re so gorgeously, sexilly smart, baby! To convey how monotonous and joyless life & love & beaches & hoes are in the coastal town? How the DELICIOUS TROPICALLY VOLCANIC FRICTION repetition emphasizes the TOTAL lack (wink wink) of excitement and variation in the daily life lava promenade, and how it all seems to blend together into a dreary sameness?

Bingo! Bango! You got it, baby! I want to escape from my current Imparadised location and situation. I feel trapped or bored SOLID with my cool surroundings, you´re not here yet, but very soon, HURRY!!!, and long for something different, not somebody different. The glorious act of etching a postcard implies a burning desire to preserve memories or send Love messages from a different, more desirable place. Even a cheap tray comes handy. We don´t have much money.

N whatdya think of my Forever phrase “Cum, cum, cum, nuclear bomb”? N why would the bored to Love or life or death singer wish for a fresh start? A chance to start over and leave behind the pain and monotony of our current situation? Do my stale and dull lyrics imply a fatal desire for a drastic change, as if a nuclear bomb could wipe the slate clean and allow for a new beginning? 2 LATE, 2 FUCKING LATE!!! But that will be another post, I have it already lined up in my hyperactive, hypersexual, hypergraphic mind running wild in all directions at once. You know me.

Towards the end of the ebbing Not So Sun Day song, I continue walking on the beach and encounter a strange dust that lands on our hands and face, yours, adding to the overall sense of desolation. The hypnotic repetition of “on your face” reinforces the apocalyptic feeling of finality or acceptance of our fairytale situation, wonderstruck. Who doesn´t love some beautiful apocalyptic winter, perfumed, ha? I mean Sunday is bloody boring. N this is the only song that makes perfect sense, portraying powerful loneliness, representing the soft and hard realities of life & love & misery. Like the Beauty and the Beast. Like beauty is cruelty. Like cruelty is beauty. Like the Beast is the Beauty. Everything good comes to an end, not for us, baby! You have to take the good with the bad, and so on … n on n on n on, aaah. Though those statements have been made cliche, everyone knows how true they really are in their own sociopathetic, LOL, lives.

Like being homeless or unemployed crying for HELP, err, $$$, hence the cheesy & catchy title and melody being a shamelessly direct reference to someone who never goes to work, whoops! But what a lovely voice I have, right? Better than the Nightingale? The relaxed bum, err, singer longs to just erase the past with a “nuclear bomb”, but it won't come, thank God! SH … SH … SH … SHIVER, LOL!

It´s not about being miserable, but about escaping that. N I guess this is what makes it so uplifting, at least for me. I know, don´t think, that's why the delicious mushroom lines “and a strange dust lands on your hands, and on your face ...” has such a mysterious and calming effect, though nothing is resolved in the end. At least the nuclear bomb (death and destruction) allows our BLISS, err, misery to leave. It generously allows our misery to be left romantically behind, no tick tac tick tac anymore. If one finds hope in that, then maybe it´s not so terrible after all (save for a few phunny effects, such as 'greased tea'). Ah, how calmingly depressive I portray nuclear death in Love! Isn´t it absolutely amazing? U R ABSOLUTELY AMAZING!!!!!!

I can't just forget that this overwhelmingly special relationship, err, relationshoot, rated R, happened and came to the never-ending Milky Way Melancholy. Sunday is the first day of the week, but I can't seem to move forward. I live everyday like Sunday, a sinner, no mass, just a mess, because I can't escape these Treasure Island feelings, I´m a pirate, after all. N so R U! N though I could leave the magical place and never come back, something is keeping me there ... in Love. Yet there is hopefulness in that my permanent vacation will be joined very soon, HURRY!, in the seaside town, that it all will only begin, two bums have already fused into ONE. N I will go back to my real home, called U, no, no U-turn, BABY!, and normal life where these depressive feelings won't be so present in my mind. So strong!!! N our Pirates of the Caribbean song brings out so many not really pirated emotions ... excitement, happiness, uncertainty, and melancholy, I LOVE YOU!!!

“Win yourself a cheap tray, share some greased tea with me” imposes so much more than just a lustful desire for human connection or companionship. It´s deep, very deep, so much deeper than you´ve ever felt, SKIN to SKIN, SOUL to SOUL, even if it´s in a simple or modest way. Lackluster seaside towns are so interesting with you, so SEXCITING, so beautiful, so romantick tac tick tac, where anything interesting rarely happens. So full of disappointments that you're going to meet no matter where you go to escape it. This can lead to beautiful depression, so let´s get beautifully depressed together some more and keep on making LOVE!!! From dusk to dawn. And even beyond.

Where any vestige of life spirit is sucked from the soul. We walk among this flotsam and jetsam of humanity, a veritable pilgrimage of psychological self-harm. The only path to redemption for the already post-apocalyptic, tourist-deserted coastal town and its patrons is nuclear annihilation, thank you. Revisiting is clearly a beach. However blurry and blurred! The phar away phire place is still so special, but it's so phucking bittersweet. A constant rush, a constant thrill, a constant rush, a constant kill. Overkill. Despite of … Despite, in spire of my English. British. Britposh!

Aha, my intense dislike of the boredom with my life in that PARADISE town becomes so severe that I actually pray for Armageddon or nuclear bomb to CUM and destroy the entire SEAMAN town and free MEH MEH from being extremely N beautifully miserable. A horny ode to alleviate my PRETTYISH BRITISH SPECIAL NEEDS! Sundays are typically a pleasant time of rest and leisure, but not here! Your hot butt, yes, wonderfully here! It's so bad that I´m awaiting Armageddon to put this NOM NOM NOM YUMMY place out of its cradling misery. The soothing loneliness and cloudy, wet weather, WHAT A P, combined to produce fabulous feelings of pleasure depression. Leisure must be pleasure, there´s just no other way!!!

Can´t you imagine being stuck in a tourist beach town in the off-season when nobody is there? Isn´t it like a nuclear bomb dropped right there to right all the wrongs? N the glam stores are all closed, like on a Sunday! N you missed the mass! N it's cloudy and wet, only the lust is reigning! N there's nothing else to do but screw! Like when you go SEXCITED to a nice boardwalk in summer winter, like the snow in summer! AAAH … So mind-numbingly-tedious, LOL!

N if you thought it was about me not wanting to go to church because it´s Sunday, you nailed your Son Of a Beach, Piece Of Sweetness!!! N wishing the shithole would be bombed to hell? Chernobyl, not only solid boredom, is a central theme. I heard that after the ecological incident radioactive dust was found to be being eaten by lambs munching on grass. Yes, however guilt-ridden, we are innocent, like the purest of hearts, the most precious lambs to the slaughter. Two bloodied combat medics on Greek/Turkish different fronts left behind the enemy lines. Buying a nice souvenir tray to remember the glorious vacation by drinking shitty tea somewhere boring ... No? No, don´t stop trying to over-interpret everything!!! Yet, do you know what 'tongue-in-cheek' really means??? SH … SH … SH … SHIVER, LOL!

At the end of the Pirate song at first you think that the relaxing singer is speaking directly to you as you listen to his Blue Art. The strange dust landing on your hands and face. But the dust is the singer's aged memory of the lover he misses, he misses so much. Trudging back over pebbles and sand he´s in the midst of remembering the silky touch of his lover's belly skin where he´s immortalized as I❤️U!!! N “your face”, his lover's unforgettable image. N all the other gushing SEXERCISE ART sets that never cease to flow like the Fertile Crescent Tigris-Euphrates he´s artistically & happily & animalistically wallowing & drowning & swimming & sunbathing in. Rainbow kisses. Butterfly kisses. Authentic 110%. No censorship. Bubbles … bubbles …

Great minds think and write and sing on multiple levels of meaning, some of which are subconscious, even to their creator. You´re dancing, because you asked me to, red-dressed, red-haired. Blushes.

Trudging slowly over wet sand
Back to the bench where your clothes were stolen
This is the coastal town
That they forgot to close down
Armageddon, come Armageddon
Come, Armageddon, come

Everyday is like Sunday
Everyday is silent and grey

Hide on the promenade, etch a postcard
"How I dearly wish I was not here"
In the seaside town
That they forgot to bomb
Come, come, come, nuclear bomb

Everyday is like Sunday
Everyday is silent and grey

Trudging back over pebbles and sand
And a strange dust lands on your hands
And on your face
On your face
On your face
On your face

Everyday is like Sunday
"Win yourself a cheap tray"
Share some greased tea with me
Everyday is silent and grey

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