Old Saw

by Purity.

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Old Saw was recorded in May 2015 at the Brain Studios in Surrey Hills, Sydney by Fletcher Matthews and Clayton Segelov

Mixed and mastered by Will Yip at Studio 4.

Album artwork by Schramko Photography


released April 20, 2016

The Brain Studios


Will Yip Studio 4


Schramko Photography




all rights reserved


Purity. Canberra, Australia

winter emo

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Track Name: Runaways
We're young and rotten, running through the house with cigarettes in our mouths
Trying to find a party.
Abandoned and fragile, just like our mentality, where the girls are far to "girly"

Where deliberate runaways, run away.
A place filled with drugs, and half these girls have babies.
You roll in the sheets, with an amateur drunk you meet.
And your mouth, it tastes like an ashtray.

You don't look at the clock for time, it's more of a countdown until you die.
So down, the bacardi.
Christian girls don't have the time, for a stray cat, who wants to be high.

"Waiting, to be spit out. 'Cause it's only the next step.
In a fucked up way it's the only thing, that's ever been real"

Swan dive into a lake of glass, join the dead club filled with stray cats.
You're just a runaway.
Lay around like you've been divorced, cheat death & be a traitor.
You're just a runaway.

Narcissism swells your head & the reason why is laying in your bed.

I'll bite my tongue, light a smoke, trace around myself in chalk,
to save the medic the work.

What do you see here?
An ill gotten child raised by separation & misery.
Filling a void with artificial happiness, treating every day as new years eve.
Letting hope, love and regret dance together as if each one never bothered one another, free.
A wish every morning that he was never conceived.
The constant reminder that he will always be disappointing.
By his father he is deemed idiocy.
But his resolution is drinking & something that is about 20 stories & 216 ft.
Track Name: Funeral Talk Pt. I
I find myself trying to decipher the meaning behind our distance.
That & breaking apart, this miserable text from your paragraphs to obtain poem.
'cause where I'll sit & stare, I find that I'm always thinking to myself.
About that last summer evening, we sat on your sisters roof 32 hours after meeting.

Was it never meant? From the beginning a silent urging.
3 straight years, 1,095 days I spent questioning myself, asking "where is her headstone?" wondering what we could have named her after, a town? a flower? a colour?

A spitting image of your Mother, bet you had the eyes of your Father.
Oh and the Lust of Lovers, is why you didn't grow like the others.

Good morning Blossom, I'll name you that for now 'cause we never let you flower.
You're the wind from the West, the last ash of a cigarette.
The still-frames of your Mother reading.
The embers of the bon fire before it started storming.
The only cold day in February.
We could have named her Blossom, my only Daughter.
Never lived, but through a Scripture.
Track Name: Sleeping Patterns
"Tired & rusted Lover, I want to know if you really are here not an empty thought gone wrong caused by the luke warm white wine that you aren't the ringing in my ears.
That when I close my eyes {you open yours} that when I rest my head & you sit there waiting {quiet} when I open mine you're gone.
I hate the lucidity, I never wanted to have any recollection of you that false had before, it's hard to forget someone you have so much to reminisce with.
Are you the best mistake I've given birth to? Or the Lion's Den the Liars Shelter I'll plant my life into?"

Smother me, tell me I'm the Hell-born child of scenery.
The bitter taste, in-between the sheets.
Deem me blind to love, dig me a shallow grave.
Cause all I know now is that we speak braille.
Burn me, kiss me, tell me, You're real.

You're my safe place, a narrow minded waste.
But I long for your touch, I'll hope it's lucid tonight.
I know I'll drink too much, notice me, ignore me.

The distorted rustle of leaves & scented candles flickering.
Eerie history of your dreams, start nauseating me.
I loathe your charming design.
I adore your repulsive repine.
I hate the way you smile when your still high.
I'd rather forget you, but I've built a better life.
I'm happier asleep, but I'd rather just die.
So help me make a tea, out of Herbal Leaves & Bleach.
I'll drink it on the count of 3 & we'll spend our eternity.
As whispering silhouettes with messed up histories.
We'll end my sleep routine, forever you'll keep me.
Your messed up world still thrills me & I know why.

I tried to live awake, but it'd be better when I die.
So help me make a tea out of Herbal Leaves & Bleach
Re-write our histories, & I'll still hate your smile
Your messed up life still thrills me & i know why
Track Name: Giving Birth to Thunder by Sleeping with his Daughter
your frightened eyes so wide.
Are easily seen.
From across the room.
So appetizing to me.
I long to hear you talk.
When your partner is gone.
Postcard Beautiful.
But today you've been left alone.
Track Name: The Diner
Woman in the middle of the diner, Mother in the middle of the aisle
A new bloom of flowers start to grow for you & me, on a plain outside
Admitted on the 14th 'cause of a public display of emotion
A notion of heartache & agony pushing, a bouquet of brusque when they say you need not worry so much.

"But how can't I worry my Son's only five I'm his Mother & I won't be a part of his life, I won't be there to see him grow or give him advice or watch him trade me off for a wife, I won't be there when he gives life; I don't want to say goodbye"

What makes you happy, what makes you happy in your head? Is it all the souls you gather around you? When you're sitting in the Hospice.

Endlessly tired as they say, in the waiting room whispering
We'll keep you in our prayers, "we'll keep you in our prayers" is how the conversation ends
If flowers could kill the open arms of Death my weathered hands & I, would grow a field of them but it's Friday afternoon
Your Son will finish school & he'll be here to visit you, but before they're about to wheel you to your routine Friday afternoon
The nurse approaches with a cloud above his head & a paper grave in his hand, with an expiration date for you.

"I'm bored of being scared to die, you'll stay forever in the moonlight
So let's be nothing, I heard it lasts forever
That one memory, you'll refuse to remember"

To end the journey was something no Child nor Human should see
An pleasant wave of gloom & sorrow partnered with years & years of misery
Who will break the silence on his Friday routine & fill his heart with what he needs?
From the day until his Death 65 maybe 70 he'll only have one thing
An address, grass, etched stone & a cemetery
He'll confide to it, yet still holding solitude so bleak
He came to this place every Friday, just after 3:00pm to Forever set in stone his Friday routine
A Sister, a Daughter but mainly a Mother.
Resting In Peace.