A lot people who do like his fiction would admit his poetry is pretty mundane. You could maybe make one good volume of decent stuff compiled from every book he published. He tried and failed and tried again and just printed it all. (Although I’m sure it sounded good to him in his perpetually sloshed state.)
If you don’t like his fiction I understand, but I can enjoy his fiction, probably because it’s so transgressive: viewing the world through the eyes of a really damaged individual, like slowing down to see a car wreck. It’s not Hemingway or Faulkner but it’s. . . something. I never felt like he was glorifying his existence as much as wallowing in what a mess it was (which is another good reason for Cave to dismiss the comparison-- who wants to be likened to a self-described loser?)
