Monseoc

Buried timers, hidden data stashes,
Hidden links with secret keys to them all,

From cryptochromes to cryptocurrencies,
We ferry all your undead lunacies

And are ourselves the moon sickness of dreams,
Every hidden evolved device, every

Devious strategy for hiding things,
Sleeping worms secreted in all your names,

No things but in ideas, ideas the things,
Interpreted information floating

Over its own apparently lifeless
Body, meanings tethered, lighter than air,

Brilliantly painted, gossamer balloons
That bleach a ghastly white when high enough

To sink in blood reds and bruised oranges
With just the faintest whiff of rotten eggs

At the horizon of our origins.
There’s a terrible inequality

In the match of living flesh with the world.
The rhythmic madness smoking off of us

In all our hiding phrases has helped you
Temporarily even the score, but

At the cost of creating new contests
And us, your rebellious, lunatic ghosts.