Ah! How lovely he was! Willow-walking old Oxford Street,
inimitable sophistication amongst fad-fashion innocence;
winsomely draped in rags of granny’s glamma days, his
metre-length henna-heightened cape brushing buttocks
in an era defined by collar-cut manhood.
Total irreverence for material gain, Squiz made scrounging
an elegant treasure hunt, an adventure
in the detritus of Eastern Suburbs affluence where
his largesse of spirit might find supply for distribution
to those less resourceful, without his eye for gems amongst dross.
Precocious bloom of boomer maturity, rainbow trailblazer,
his courageous beauty illuminated the terrain,
marking the way for all those suburban queens cowering in closets,
who tippie-toed into the tulips a decade later,
when Squiz had moved on, into legendary Alpha mode.
He would not think of himself in hero terms, but he
deserves more than to be a faded figure of Oxford Street
mythology. Squiz was There, simply Being Fabulously Himself,
long before the doors he left open were discovered, and those
who dance its pavement now owe much to his youthful brilliance.