Of Turks and Turkeys (Oily Version)


Sunday 3rd of July (Giant Phallus Hauling Day)

Dear Mighty Jellybean,

How’s it going? I guess you leave Izmir sometime soon? It looks like I’ll be back at Rasay the coming semester, it’s fucking hot here and it feels like the entire city is bathing in a dirty oily sweat filled pothole, not quite as hot as Izmir though, where the sun shines through you so Izmirites can check for whether you’re circumcised or not. You’ll be happy to learn that I’m eating a hotdog right now, pork of course, quite good, I love eating hotdogs while writing emails, the two go together like Turks and mayonnaise, still it’s nice to be back home, in a country where you can’t predict, in advance, what your excrement will look like before consuming the dish.

When the first crusaders encountered the first community of Turks, the Seljuks, they found them ‘gabbling away like demons.’ Sorry I haven’t written sooner but had a lot on the metal plate in my head. Since I’ve been here there have been 9 bombings or 2 suicide attacks, and a minor earthquake that toppled a few bookshelves. Not doing anything super productive in the practical sense, just milking the black storm clouds, lurking behind rubbery shrubbery, and being the liveried butler serving bad decisions faithfully. And this morning, along with 12 of my brethren, am hauling a 13 meter stoned phallus through the streets of Beirut.

The traffic cop fired up his big white police bike, wailed, and blew a kiss to the gridlocked traffic, before speeding off leaving a skid mark where his heart used to be. Everybody here is waiting for the bomb(s).

With much hotdogs, The Imperial Turkey


Sunday 11th of July 2016 (Holy Mushroom Day)

Dear Mighty Jellybean,

May I wish you a blessed Mushroom Day. Those suicide attacks I was telling you about. It was wrong of me to think that extremists have no sense of humor! They attack this border town in the morning, kill 9 presumably innocent people, on the evening of that day there was a service for the victims, and the terrorists attacked that gathering at the church. I’m chasing every line on the rainbow and the constant fireworks make it seem more like a warzone. In Izmir I’d probably be on the subway, crushed by a mass of Turks over-perfumed with BO, waiting for a big ass-shaped asteroid to destroy the world. Do you think I’d make a good televangelist? I’m actually planning a pre-emptive visit to Izmir sometime in August to look for an apartment, God it’ll be hot, remember that time in the café by the highway when your eyes were running down your face like soft boiled eggs? There might be a major military engagement here, I hope it won’t be accompanied by a shortage of hotdogs.

With too much mayo, The Imperial Turkey


Monday July 18th 2016 (Lonesome Mariner Day)

Dear mighty Jellybean,

I woke up this morning at half past noon, was still groggy and checked the news while smoking my first cigarette, it said: Nice Terrorist attack kills 88. Too bad, nice town Nice, in France. Thank god the power is back on, like the messiah back from a vacation. His big bulging eyes echo, and cries tears of blood as big as tomatoes. I tend to think ‘life is beautiful’ a lot more here, beggars approach the car windows and plaster themselves on it selling high quality merchandise, as opposed to a manic depressive subway train that smells of the living dead. Izmiry society is a clammy society, Beiruty society is not a society. I guess by now you’ve heard of the Coocoo coup, it looked like the big roaring gut between your ears. I know you agree with my edited feelings, I can picture you nodding at 4/4 time, a great and precise nodder, and endowed with a perfect bob too. The crop of the cream has nothing to spill its seeds onto.

With relish, The Imperial Turkey.


Wednesday 20th of July 2016 (The Holy Day of Shedding Crocodile Tears)

Dear Mighty Jellybean,

It’s so hot you can barbeque a hotdog on your head, I’m leading the life of a tarantula hiding in bunches of bananas, a very stagnant life with larvae of anxiety already hatching, and washing my dirty laundry in the river Styx. Sorry I’m writing this on my phone from a café, but after exhausting the supply of books I got recently, no choice is left but to reread the ones I still have from the past, I hate that. So I went out, saw my friend the Middleman, who drove his crumpled car into town. There was so much gobbling on the news, it seems the Turkey has flown the coop, is now hypnotizing headless chickens, and charging backwards relentlessly like a mongoloid Genghis Khan. Nothing like new worries to take the place of your old ones.

Edible dachshund uber alles! The Imperial Turkey


Wednesday 3rd of August 2016 (Toe Counting Day)

Dear Mighty Jellybean,

Remember that one time in The Owl Café, when you took off your glasses, rubbed your eyes, and they inflated and popped out of your skull and floated around like zeppelins ready to burst? I’m sitting on a stool threatening to ream me, watching my pack of cigarettes sucking up the sweat of my shimmering margarita. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to sit on a barrel of a tank when it fires, but unfortunately now is a time to spray spermicide on one’s dreams. This is when the prophylactics come off. I’m sure you understand, you’re intelligent, you probably have a couple of small brains in your nutsack as well as Spinoza living in his cave, in your left nostril. I’ve always wanted to be a ruthless dictator with a choir of yes men, fake rubber vomit skin, and pictures of me plastered everywhere like a badly painted greenish smear of excrement. And if you don’t like it I might as well be Rasputin, Putin, or raspberry jam. A loose cannon that hit the bull’s eye, blind and singing in braille, a vampire bat plastered on my upper lip and champion of hypocrisy. It’s going to take a Saturday to break this spell.

Please pass the mustard gas, The Imperial Turkey


Sunday September 7th (Day of Getting Anxious About Everything)

Dear Mighty Jellybean,

I can’t write poetry,

I’m poultry,

I’m a 200 pound Turkey.

Keep a big

bulging eye out

for the fluffiness

that will consume us all,

watch the olive grove,

where butterflies and gay bees congregate

but Turkeys do not.

Fair punishment I suppose

for all those chickens we choked,

going down the ladder till finally,

we become some kind of unidentifiable cheese.

Oh, Almighty Eternal EgGod,

pour your innards onto me,

scramble me with your soul!

In a wintery dream,

smoke a cigarette that might not last an eternity,

and sleep the sleep of the torpedoes.

Yours falsely, The Imperial Turkey.


Monday September 28th (The Day of Atonement for Binges)

Dear Mighty Jellybean,

I was just sent this form we have to fill out for Rasay University, just thought about how the email system is flawed, how anal the Turk who is a jerk can get, and it’s compulsory, so just though I’d send it in case you didn’t get it. Personally my onion is burnt, I can’t stand surveys and the beginning of an academic year, as well as Izmir. Silly but sincere, we chastise our pain instead of displaying it in zoos, and we are now parasites in paradise greedily eating up all the hotdogs that belong in Turkish mouths. It is unnatural for human beings to act in accordance with nature, to be human is to deviate from nature.

Questionnaire for International student in Turkey Republic:

What do you like more hogs, logs, dogs, or frogs? Please place in order of preference.





Have you ever looked an owl in eyes? Please give shortened answer.

Are you a follower of the false Imperial Turkey? Please give shortened answer.

Were you ever the prototype for a blow up doll? If you are, please try not to blow up Turkey Citizens.

Have you ever gobbler like a Turkey, wild or neutralized? Answer yesno

What color are the polka dots on your soul? Answer yesno

Have you ever grown a moustache? And if not, Why not? Please answer with moustache.

Have you ever licked the hairs surrounding an asshole into a fine silken thread? Please answer with asshole. If you don’t have one, Turkey Republic will happily provide asshole for duration of stay in Turkey.

Do you have spasms relieved by strokes? Please answer short or it won’t go in our nervous system.

Do you remember you childhood?

Who is favorite vulture?

Is this your 666 time trip in Turkey?

Please enter you’re parrot serial number:

Who do the Turkish emigration and Turkish ministry of education think they are? I am the Imperial Turkey, and no Turkey can out-Turkey me.

The Imperial Turkey.


Thursday September 31st (The Day of Counting Blessings that Never Happened)

Dear Mighty Jellybean,

It’s too bad you cannot return to Turkey, I guess I’m here on my own now. Every day that passes without you is like a fat turkey, being rounded up by the gestapo, blindfolded, and then shot point blank. The blind groping the blind, like bats they grope the insides of their moist dark caves, tomorrow I will be hung upside down by the neck, until I’m dead. Lobsters can never conceal their delight at anything, the world has never really been as uncrustaceanlike as now. I’m afraid it’s a full moon tonight, it, the moon, also seems happy as it, the moon, always does, making fun of those it’s driving nuts, including the lobsters. The Wild Turkey with fat zeros to the left and right of it that gobbles in the wild, and in captivity, is more of a menace to polite society than a frog singing under the aforementioned full moon tonight. Cradle your imaginary red lobster, and hold it close until it suffocates, so that it can whisper to you that appearances may be misleading. It was a clear winter night, and it still is, stained by a drop of scum damp for all eternity, we don’t forgive but grow senile. A wound like a bright light seen from the outside through thick red curtains, the future is being written in invisible ink, as pretty as a picture that still needs to be colored in.

With extra tomato ketchup, The Imperial Turkey.


Saturday October 27st (The Day of Contemplating Nothingness)

Dear Mighty Jellybean,

Riding the subway on this toady today, I noticed a radical change. The handle bars are now copper or a coppery color and a cheap looking wooden veneer on the ceiling of the compartments was installed, but it still smells pretty much the same. I suddenly got the urge to start gobbling like a Turkey, I started gobbling like a Turkey, the Turks weren’t pleased, the Turks don’t know what a Turkey is. But it’s not exactly like there are no hotdogs in Turkey. A hotdog in Turkish is sosis, they also have sosis which is sausage. They do not have pork, but like the rest of the hotdog world, they have a strip of intestines encapsulating a world of discarded meat, and, under normal circumstances, is made up of body parts such as eyes, assholes, lungs, and such that are considered inedible if not ground up first. Over a pair of soulful drinks I wondered, if I could only use one word to describe an asshole, what would it be? Mine would have to be infinity. Not the fair white dove of peace pigeonholed in a specific category, the knives in its back its sole company, nevertheless, I never really did like the way it bobbed its head though. Well I guess the longer you live the more you understand Bob Dylan, the shops in a last desperate attempt were open this Sunday evening, willing to sell absolutely anything for a glimmer of hope, especially if it’s their country, but only to a fellow countryman. Or to a scope of ever widening principled hypocrisy, and still the Turks come in one size fits all.

On behalf of an ungrateful nation, The Imperial Turkey.


Sunday November 1st (The Day of No Deodorant)

Dear Mighty Jellybean,

Why was the Turkey arrested by the authorities after the death of the great leader? They suspected fowl play. In a seventh heaven, over and above god, I failed on one of my papers, I was also told I need to work on my punk, punk, punk, punk, punk, punctuation? I guess it takes a period of horror and anxiety to rediscover life. I never did discover that girl’s name, the one our British-accented Maltese teacher called ‘Mermidal.’ I saw it on the attendance sheet, but still not sure how to pronounce it, I guess halfway between mermaid and marmalade. Eclipsing a wallet stiff with cash, her ass was my shepherd, hollow is thy name in the emptiness of my head. As discreet as a moose banging a brick wall, I followed, to where the newspaper was bleeding into the gutter. It was an eye bulging event, attended by laughing lobsters, realizing fully that the gift you just got was another entity’s way of imposing its taste on you. This extinguished turkey, this requiem of a protagonist, is a firm believer in death after death.

In frantic semantics, The Imperial Turkey.











Pinchas Montes di Oka is an exile living in exile, far from his primordial urges. He has been known to practice vampirism and can never get a decent night’s sleep. He has traveled far and wide looking for an elusive fluffiness that always seems to escape him. Amongst his writings are a series of plagues, the self-help book “How the Lobster Can Guide Us to Ripe Fruit,” and several volumes of poetry that reflect on their own reflection.