Camp Concentration is one of the best books about being clever and On Wings of Song an even better novel. Some of the short stories are extraordinary too - 'Getting into Death' is probably the best of the collection to which it gives its name. He was sarcastic, misanthropic and had a heart buried somewhere in the gruffness and occasional camp. The poems of the last year or so that he posted almost daily on LJ were not his best work - cynical, grumpy and sometimes gratuitously offensive - but there were some fine lyrics in there if you go quarrying, and some well-turned epigrams.
He died for the reasons that those of us that are ageing fear most. He was likely to become homeless; his work was neglected and unfashionable; the love of his life was dead.
I've been reading his last few entries - how did we miss how desperate he was? And yet, he had been so aggressive in his gloom for so long that how could we have known?