I’ve never taken advantage of . . . one-night stands. It’s like treating sex like sneezing. Sex is a fairly disgusting sort of tufted, smelly-area kind of activity, which is too intimate to engage in with strangers. I’m all for erotic in terms of imagination, but the physical side is something different.

—Jonny Greenwood

How about a teen sex romp where you and your buddies are always trying to get some?

—Homer Simpson, giving career advice to Mel Gibson

A teen sex romp movie genre means
we’re chanced to be a hopeful
people, which I like—
it’s globally the entertainers and the entertained
resolving a token of deceptive
biological fact by establishing spawning
or the blind compulsion to spawn
as our most valuable end.
A sharp tribute to humanity and everlasting life—
but deceptive?—“deceptive”
implies some literal agent commits deceit
by making us like it to make
more of us. Will this agent
god, or nature, or fact—mainly, living
as good. Viruses too like to spawn.
And cancers, which mean to survive
until executing their hosts. Yes?
Shout it back at me: we will be
better than nature. This we call “hubris,”
struck powerless from the start:
to suppress sexual impulses
would be to defy all gods and so yield
the slow evaporation of our species,
whatever value. Spawning too
might mean suffocating the host,
killing it, and killing ourselves—
rivers of ice divining in sun—
we merge sex and reason, leaving
us alone amid patterns—the blank
of hail into hot sand, the hollow pass
of flaming, frozen meteors,
of adulterers furtively pulling favorite clothes
from shoulders and hips, vaguely
in the name of reason, abolition, spasm,
perpetuation, or ruin. Sad how people
love each other. Even rapists can be covert.
And it’s all reducible to in against out,
implosion matching explosion. Everyone
is going to die. Every one of us.
I love teen sex romps. Love them.