Extended Eulogy For Hussein Alasdair McGaw, 8

Wheelchair backseatdriver, backchatting distractive instruction.
Tabbystubbled, dying boyish organiser, bent tense
like the footrests were startingblocks as I vacantly veered
him nearly toonear Oldfulhamroad bollards. Stonersteered
in a twowheeled tortoise throne of the infirm,
but Ol’ Fearless’s footfall wasn’t foiled, his soles weren’t
‘fraidly flat: he might have been wheeled there,
but to the Royal Marsden  he was marchin'.

An unselfconscious trippydancer with thick flick
of crowcurve quiff unagingly slick
at Ibiza Camden Soho UEA housenights.
Foremost, freely, at street o’ clock
up opportune boulevards,
at sun o' dial,
down happenstance hahas,
did his dervish jig.

Copped a rave phase in middlage, but th’earapy
for his sensitive, loudsized shelllikes
was more Beethoven Billie Holiday 
Nina Simone Schubert 
Middleastern Afrocuban Bach’s cello suites 
and his friend Justin Sullivan’s solostuff.

His anecdotes rocked: 
rerelishing reminisears 
playedback ripping linguapix
so my mind's eye could hear 
one 70s James Osterberg gig, 
Uncle Pop then a young rock
at the Fountain of Wigout, when Ig
was wildly eggedonfromthemosh 
by my Uncle Swirlijig,
till both became wilder, happier agitators. 

And soulful juggalugs had him accompanhear 
of carolsingers, spontaneouscorting
a nightflock’s nativity notes nestwards to Norwichcathedral,
where thru a beatific trance he hearkened th’entire
happybirthdaymessiah choir
 - 'twas a tale of tailing angelaudio one 90s Noel.

He did not play an instrument, 
tho' in sentiment he knew the score,   
and listened unpretentiously, 
with receptivity rarefied yet raw.