The “undercurrent” and at the same time a kind of keystone in most of Brenkus’ writing is the fear of the paradigm established by Cain’s bratricide and continuing with today’s civilization of death, of deliberate killing. The road to knowledge, to some kind of ideal, let’s say to paradise, to the harmonious fusion of souls, albeit without God, that road leads through hell, that (pre-)image of the world both phantom and lived: “First we have to look into the darkness, and only then will we find the way to the light.”
Brenkus is a mirror of our dreaming, of something subconscious, relative and cruel, like a diamond covered in slime and spit hardening in the last circle of hell, created by human imagination.

From time out of mind, death has been a fundamental stone of each culture; it has determined a general tendency of the life’s nature and meaning. Culture has been different from other cultures in what it has thought of death. Originality of death’s perception also meant the originality of culture’s pulsing. Brenkus writes as though he would like to find, by writing, a verbally seizable Einstein’s death formula, a rule of the rules, a universal equation of the watchful being like the opposite to searching for the theory of everything for which is striving the modern physics.
Way, by which Brenkus seizes a theme, is melancholic. He belongs to the most melancholic poets in Slovakia.