Charles Bukowski is the last poet I'd call pretentious. He's like a meaner, drunker, poorer Hemingway. His biographical character raped a retarded woman on his mail route in his first book. He kicked the shit out of his girlfriend wearing shorts and white loafers during an interview. He came from a generation where men had to be tough as nails badasses and he slept on benches, drank til he had a bleeding ulcer and his hobby was going to the horse track but he wrote tender poems about the death of his first girlfriend, "A pot bellied whore."
I love him. He's unflinchingly honest and complex.