(pit on the fury)

last known moment 



My brain is an oil slick, mired in brief moments of its glorious past. beers. booze. cigarettes and the bands that made them all taste better.

This is the last known moment in the world of menstrual nation, a band better known for it's incomparable love of failure and the scars that come along the next morning than for it's ouvre.

Not that there was one. not that there need to fucking be.

Menstrual nation was a moment, repeated endlessly at the end of countless evenings when all that was left to drink was swill and the guitars didn't tune worth a damn. they never had a drummer, just some strings, a couple of machines and the gusto of the last man standing last at the st. pat's parade wondering what the fuck it was everyone was vomitting about.

King kopay, greggnog and sr. somatic (from left) didn't need a stage. hell, sometimes they didn't even need microphones. all they need was a time and a fucking song swinging around their heads and that was it.

Terminal party.

People came. people sang. drank. fought and fucked to be near the madness of these three playing their beautiful disaster. screaming into the long air trying to save the world or something just as futile (i can't ever remember the manifesto being clear, but i'm a wino lost in flogging molly right now so...).

And sure, most of their performances were reduced to violence (taking on each other and anyone dumb enough to think it was a joke) but that's what made them great.

Makes.

Menstrual nation is (despite my love of long lost tense) a living thing. sure it's splintered into varying subsets (the whiskey dropouts, etc.) but it's got a goddamn soul all it's own.

And by the look of the glaze over these young fuckers' eyes it might just be breathing for a long time to come.